


Tell Me the Story of You and I

by inkandimpalas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, Impala Sex, M/M, Porn With Plot, bartender!Dean, writer!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandimpalas/pseuds/inkandimpalas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Dean Winchester is a bartender at the Chili Pepper in downtown Lawrence Kansas. His life is a string of uneventful scenarios paired with stories upon stories he collects from the more vocal patrons, and this seems to be enough for him. At least, until the dishevelled Castiel roams into his bar late on a thursday night, already drunk, but more interesting than what could be expected. What Dean doesn't know is that Cas sees something in him that night, and because of it, he finds himself remastered in words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take the Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a one-shot sort of deal but after writing a good chunk of it, I sort of fell in love with this plot-line so I left a lot of things unanswered and sort of lead into the next bit. Anyways, this is bartender!Dean and writer!Cas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's working a night shift when he notices the presence of the other man. Things happen, words are said, and a start of something brings the conclusion to the end of a well designed peace of mind.

Chapter 1: Take the Long Way Home 

Dean had seen many faces in his twenty-six years. Many looks and stories, all stirring and boiling under lips and eyes and skin, just waiting to surface. To pour out into that empty glass, or into the receptive ear of anyone or anything that would listen. For the young Winchester, it had always been a driving reason as to why he ended up pouring shots at the local bar. Not because of the bad music or the minimum wage, but because Dean was no scholar, and it wasn’t his mission to help anyone. Just to listen whenever he could. 

Which was why he worked the night shifts, and talked to whomever sat at his section of the bar long enough for the alcohol to let those words loose. 

Tonight was one of those very nights. Tips were good, the women were great, and his attention had been piqued by a curious amount of vocal patrons with no obvious qualms against spilling their guts to some attractive stranger. Had he not been in the midst of listening to a middle-aged woman talk about her cheating ex husband whilst tossing back apple martinis like water, he might even have zeroed in on the haphazardly dressed, scruffy man slumping in through the front doors with a listless gait and a sobered grimace. Had it not been for the lingering club-style music, he might have heard the gravelly groan of a voice that beckoned over the nearest bartender for a double scotch, straight. If the lights hadn’t been so dim, he might have caught wind of the intense pale blue of those squinting, haggard eyes. 

But there were many things Dean couldn’t always catch in a bar full of people still worth knowing. 

“We’re out of Cardu, single malt.” It was Jo who spoke, pushing past him in a flurry that was very much her own. Before she headed into the back, she turned towards the ashy-haired man, hand on her hip and brow perked in a subtle manner. “Then I’m gonna start closing up. Watch the counter while I’m gone, kay?”

“I won’t burn the house down, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She merely gave him that exaggerated look, rolling her eyes once before elapsing behind scene. Even still, he could hear the deep tenor of her voice as it reverberated back in her place. “It’s not me you should be trying to convince, Winchester.”

He could only laugh gruffly at this. Yes, Jo was a royal pain in the ass when she wanted to be, but was nothing close to the uptightness of her mother. Sure, she had the makings of being a ruthless manager in her own time, but nothing was scarier than Ellen on a rampage. 

Of course, he didn’t have much time to think about this now that the woman was beckoning for another appletini, movements stuttered and eyelids heavy. Yeah, she’d hit her limit a long time ago, but she was still tipping on every drink bought, and it wouldn’t be long till she’d be making her way out those doors. 45 minutes till last call, after all. 

By the time he’d placed a fresh glass in front of her, the bar seemed to have emptied itself out considerably. Pitchers were being drained and tables emptied. Cabs called and drunken, staggering groups supporting each other out the front doors one by one. It was always Dean’s favourite part, watching them go. Taking their words and their stories with them so that the bar could fill up again for another day. It was peaceful, and comfortable. 

But there were still two presences left at that bar, one having seemed to lose her capability of speaking coherently whilst the other managed to do quite fine on his own, sipping mildly on that glass of scotch, eyeing the rows upon rows of bottles as if attempting to drown himself in the sight of them. 

To Dean, this was that opening he’d known far too well. 

“Need anything else, bud?” he asked, heading towards the slumped man with smooth, slow strides. It was an obvious gait to anyone sober enough to acknowledge it, and one of which brought the quick but patient glance of the middle-aged man, expressionless as the moment he’d sat down. “Can I cap you off?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“No problem,” he replied, none too worse for wear. It wouldn’t take long for the conversation to brew. He just had to build at it. “Let me know if you need anything, kay? Last call’s at two.”

There was no response to that. Merely a nod of his head before those eyes drifted back lazily towards the long line of bottles for the second time that night. For a moment, Dean wondered if the older man was just there to stare at nothing at all. He drank sparsely and from that same glass, long fingers running along the rim in circles before grasping it up again and raising towards the soft pillow of his lower lip. A lip that would normally play a pretty part in Dean’s inner monologues, had it not been the appendage of a much older, and frankly disheveled, man. If Dean had a style, it would have been young and reckless. 

Yes, he liked him women like he liked his lifestyle. Boundless. 

This was of no concern, though. At least, not when compared to the situation at hand. Dean kept his eyes towards the glasses behind the bar, which he surreptitiously began to polish with a cloth, smoothing out the smudges and fingerprints. 

“Another,” the blue-eyed man said finally, breaking the silence once more. Or, at least, the closest thing to silence while that same music poured through the hidden speakers. If Dean had his way, there would be nothing but good ol’ classic rock. None of this frilly trance nonsense. Either or, the glass in front of the man was empty, and Dean felt much obliged to fill it. 

“If you’re drinking Cardu, you’ll have to wait till Jo gets back from the cellar,” he said, turning his eyes back towards the older man with a quick lift in the corner of his mouth. Yes, he may not have been much interested in the older man, let alone men at all, but he was no stranger to using his charms whenever necessary. “But I’ll be sure to get you whatever your second choice might be.”

“Recommendations?” he didn’t seem all that interested. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose between a smooth, pale forefinger and thumb, eyes closing for a brief moment before fluttering back open. And, in that quick motion, Dean watched the ocean spill through the other man’s lashes. 

“I- uh,” he blanked, recuperating from his momentary lapse in reality. Had it not been for the lingering question and the slow but steady thump of the woman’s feet as she exited the bar, Dean would have been quite at odds with himself over the sudden onslaught of visual stimulation that stirred something up under his skin. He could feel it crawling about even as he struggled to answer the aforementioned question, completely besotted by the fact that he could actually physically see the bright azure of the other man’s eyes in such dimness. “Er, depends. Ardbeg is a popular choice if you’re into single malts.”

“I’ll just have a beer,” he said, shrugging. “Anything on tap’s fine, thanks.”

Dean nodded, flushed as he turned towards the smooth copper handles. He mentally cursed at himself whilst he poured the man a tall pint of bud, watching as the amber liquid filled the glass up in an almost painfully quick succession. When he returned, he placed it against the counter as smoothly as possible, trying not to appear jaunty and unsure of himself as possible. This made it even more awkward to watch. 

The man turned his eyes up again when he did this, meeting with Dean’s yellowy-green ones, still expressionless but with a certain smoothness that seemed somewhat less hostile as his prior being came across. Maybe that shot of scotch had soothed the aches and pains a little. In any case, he slid a ten dollar bill across the counter, not breaking that eye contact as he went, which Dean was, unfortunately, obliged to keep. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, gravelly voice cool and composed, even as he raised the glass to his lips, this time with a certain purposeful lift to that smooth upper lip. It was distracting, and obvious. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

The younger man struggled for words yet a second time, fumbling with the bill in his hands before slipping it into one of the pouches of his low-slung bar apron. The kind that tied around the hips and seemed as inconspicuous as the bar logo on his black, V-neck t-shirt. When he responded, his voice was strained. “Dean Winchester, at your service.”

He smiled, blue eyes crinkling, and it was nearly enough to make the younger man turn away with the sudden flush of awe and excitement it brought. “Well, Dean Winchester, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Castiel.”

The name struck a chord. It was strange, and yet it suited the odd, scruffy man with the worn out khaki overcoat and the beautiful eyes. “Nice to meet you too, Cas.”

Another silence broke out, which was uncomfortable, but welcome. After all, Dean wasn’t quite sure how he’d gone from his usual charmingly arrogant self to a puddle of confusion and self-reproach in mere seconds. Just that, if he’d had his way of it, he’d of closed shop then and there if it meant escaping the presence of the other man sooner. Had it not been for the clock that ticked achingly closer to that final few minutes, he would’ve left the bar in search of Jo himself. 

To his luck, there were glasses that still needed polishing, and if he kept himself occupied, maybe it would be enough to cut the communication off between him and that strange, foreboding man long enough for him to leave. 

“So Dean,” Cas said, voice almost sultry even in such a low, near growl of an octave. “What made you decide bartending was the right path for you?”

Dean grimaced, not quite sure if he was more annoyed with the choice of question or the fact that his attempt at keeping quiet were disrupted. Fortunately for him, he’d had the right sense to assume the first. “A job’s a job, I guess.”

“And you like your job?”

“Sure.”

Silence resumed it’s pause, though this time it was annoyingly obtuse. Had Dean been in a more open sense of self, he would have muttered some uncouth profanity under his breath when he turned his head, but managed to keep quite out of trouble by simply returning all of his attention towards the glass. He wouldn’t bother to look again if it meant he could keep his cool by keeping his annoyance burning hot. 

“You’re lucky then,” the man said finally. “I can’t remember the last time I had a good day.”

And there it was. The shameless opening. It was glaringly obvious how easy it would be to crack that thick exterior now if only he could weave his way back in with the same charm and dexterity as was usually depicted on a regular basis. All he had to do now was ask that one fateful question, and it was on his lips before he could even let sit the prior annoyance from before. 

“Why do you say that?” he asked, looking up from the glass in his hands, keeping his tone nonchalant so as not to scare the other off with too much zeal. Dean hated it when people made it their business to get to the root of someone else’s problem with a directive force. It always ended up badly, like poking at a tiger a few too many times. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

He shrugged, then took a nice long sip from the pint in front of him. It was interesting watching him drink. Maybe because of the way it was so controlled and yet utterly desperate, as if he would have bathed himself in it had it not been for the propriety of being in a public place. Dean had once felt that way about alcohol too. In fact, he still had days where he’d rather of stayed home with a 46er of Rye and a big plate of apple pie then have attempted to manage a life. But booze was one thing, and life was another. Dean learned from a young age that both had to be kept very much separate. 

“You know,” he said finally, after placing the glass back down against the countertop, wrist raised as to wipe the access froth from his lips. “Writing is probably the absolute worst career choice you could ever choose for yourself, you know that?”

“Writing?”

“Yes,” he replied gruffly, lips pulled back in a subtle grimace. “Writing. You love it and then you skewer it for money, and then you hate everything about it.”

Dean placed freshly polished glass back in position, picking up another as he pondered what Cas had said. After a moment or so of this, he spoke again. “I can’t really relate. I’ve never attempted to write anything.”

“Good,” the blue-eyed man responded blankly. “Far too much effort, very few perks.” 

Another deep sip had been shoveled down, so much so that the glass was near empty after the second drag. He didn’t seem to notice though. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his trench coat yet again, sliding the paper bill across the counter. 

“I’m going to need another, if you don’t mind.”

Dean took the bill, grabbed a fresh glass, and filled the man yet another pint. This time, he even went so far as to hand the glass to him instead of sliding it across the bar as was his usual tendency, hoping this little change would warm the other up enough to continue past the familiar life’s problems talk so he could completely exempt himself from the discussion and get to the meat of the story. This, of course, didn’t seem to work, as the man reached up and his fingers were so long and white and smooth, stretching around the glass as if to deliberately touch the skin of his own. It was an electric shock that nearly made Dean drop the glass. 

Cas was smiling. 

“What time are you done at, Dean?”

“Closing,” he replied, voice cracking in that oh-so-familiar nervousness. He reached for another glass, trying not to trip on the way over. “So in about fifteen. You might want to finish that pint soon.”

“I’ll manage,” he replied coolly. And with this, he took a small, dry sip. Not the needy ones he’d been choking back prior. His attention seemed now solely engaged, and not with what Dean had wanted him to display. Not this outwardly. “Has anyone ever told you that you have such an odd focus about your eyes? They seem to dwell on things your face doesn’t appear to reflect. It’s quite devastating, really.”

How could he even attempt to respond to that? Grimacing, he kept his eyes on the glass, the rag. The sound of the music blaring in his eardrums as a mantra might if he were careless enough to believe it one. And it was a likely distraction now, whereas he could concentrate on it more than Cas. There was no one left but him. 

“I shouldn’t be so obstructive,” Castiel added when he hadn’t received an answer, as if to make the prior set of lines less awkward. It didn’t help, but the intent was there. “My apologies, Dean.”

And this was where things should have stayed. Separate, and wordless. Dean had made more than enough tips that night to not have to worry about what the other man thought of him, and he surely could manage a simple goodnight without it coming out completely wrong. There were no if’s and’s or but’s with Castiel. He just wasn’t going to be capable enough to keep on track, and it disturbed him immensely. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Cas said finally, as if to render the prior discussion void. To set the slate anew. “You’ve only got what, ten minutes left?”

“Sorry, but that’s against policy, bud.” he replied gruffly, shuffling awkwardly. If there was one rule that had to be followed and was enforced on a regular basis was that there was no drinking to be had while on the job. If Jo found out, he could just imagine the shit-storm it would stir up. “Thanks for offering, though.”

“Not even at the end of your shift?”

“Rules are rules.”

“And you look like a man who follows the rules often.” Sarcasm. It was surprising hearing the slight tone in the other man’s voice, who had been so upfront about his intent that night. It just didn’t seem to fit the picture he’d managed to create in the limited amount of time he’d known Cas. “I really wouldn’t mind a drinking partner for my last round. I’ll even go so far as to get out of your hair for one last shot.”

This was tempting. 

“Are you trying to goad me, Castiel?” he asked, taking his time placing the glass cup back down in it’s spot before slinging the rag over his shoulder so he could rest his elbows against the countertop. He regretted it near immediately, but kept these feelings to himself. 

“Depends,” the ocean-eyed man replied smartly, lips pulling at the corners yet again in that strange, awkward, damn near perfect grin. “Is it working?”

Devastating as hell, it was. After a sigh, he grabbed two glasses and placed them on the countertop. “Only one and I choose the brand.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It was like this he felt he might die. Slipping his hand around the neck of a 46er, pouring two shots of Jack Daniels with a man he’d known for a whole of an hour at most, of whom he hated and was inexorably enthralled by. It seemed a likely way to go, because it was always what he felt when he drank. If there was one way to die, it would be to go quickly with a drink in hand. 

And when the shot flew up past his lips and down his throat, the dredge of his sinews whined terribly. It was a shock to his system, and one he’d been surprisingly unaware had been so necessary till then. It was, as if, for the first time that night, he was loosening his collar. Giving air to his barely used lungs. Letting in a cold draught of midnight into the emptiness that was hollowed out so deep within his stomach he’d forgotten how endless it seemed. But alcohol was good, and Cas was just as lethal. 

Yes, lethal as hell. 

“One more,” Dean said, watching as Cas slammed his glass against the countertop. “On me.”

The second was drained just as quickly. Before he’d managed to let his body register the hot flush of intoxication, he’d already started filling up their glasses, not even fully aware of why he was attempting to. He’d be home in a half hour, and there was a bottle waiting for him there, but he didn’t want to drink alone. It could only do so much. 

“Easy there, cowboy,” Cas raised his hands up in a mock surrender. It was a bleary motion and showed not only his drunkenness, but his exhaustion too. “You might have the tolerance of a Greek God but I’ve been drinking since eight so you might want to slow it down a bit.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Dean replied somberly. “Make ‘em count.”

This elapsed that smile again. He wanted Cas to smile always. 

They shot back their whiskey straight, not bothering to ask whose turn it was to buy or if anyone was buying or how much longer either of them had. They just kept drinking, one shot after another, quick and mechanical and all too much to be considered good for you. In fact, had it not been for Jo’s calling in the background, he would have continued on well past last call if he could have. Kept the bar open and the drinks running. Maybe struck up a real, two-sided conversation with the blue-eyed man, said some things about himself for once. But all of this was conjecture, and silly, drunken conjecture at that. Dean was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“Last call, bud,” he said finally, resting his body against the countertop. He could feel the weight of his limbs dragging him down slowly. The heat in his stomach was overpowering to say the least. 

“Damn,” Cas replied before slipping himself out of his stool slowly. “And I was just starting to have a good time. Isn’t that a shame.”

Jo came back around the corner, brandishing that bottle she’d dragged up from the cellar. She looked at Cas first, eyeing him with a certain amount of trepidation before turning her attention back on Dean, more pleasantly but with a certain suspicious air. “Cellar’s locked and lights are out. You can handle shutting her up, right?”

“Course.”

“Good, then I’m going home.”

With that, she dropped the bottle in an empty slot and grabbed her bag from under the counter of which she slipped over her left shoulder. She stopped for only a moment, staring at Cas with a clear inkling to tell him to piss off but a well controlled tongue stopping her from doing so. “Last call was five minutes ago.”

Cas seemed a little surprised by this, raising his hands as if to show he meant no harm. It made Dean want to defend him, and he’d never felt inclined to defend any of his patrons. 

“It’s okay, Jo,” the ashy-haired man stated plainly, untying his apron. He could feel small beads of perspiration mark his brow, nerves still frayed enough to make his voice thick. “Guy needs a ride home. I offered.”

She seemed surprised by this but said very little on the subject. Instead, she merely shrugged once more, hit the light switch for the backroom, then headed out the front door leaving the two men quite alone again. He was sure he’d get an earful from her on how there were such things as taxi’s in the morning, and it frightened him somewhat to know how dishonest he had been, and not just with Jo. With himself. Why he chose to flatter such a situation was something he still had trouble discerning which was worsened now that alcohol had been involved. 

And yet, he didn’t want it to end that quickly. At least, not as far as he was willing to admit. Castiel looked like the type to be back tomorrow night, and the night after, but there was no guaranteeing the blue-eyed man would ever be slumped down to the point of drinking alone again. At least, he seemed more or less down on his luck, which would, presumably, return sooner or later. 

And what did that leave him? He couldn’t quite answer. All he knew was that something had happened, and he needed to follow it through. 

When the lights of Jo’s Goldwing blared through the windows then disappeared out and away, Dean took the chance to look up at the older man, not quite sure what he was about to be greeted with, but knowing full well it was not going to be something he needed. Just, he hadn’t quite expected that small smile to still be lingering on the edges of the other man’s lips, all coy and pulled up just at the very edges. He had crows-feet too, that crinkled ever so slightly making his cheeks look warmer, more flushed, though that could have been influenced by the alcohol. In any case, it was too good to be true. 

“Are you sure it’s safe to drive me home, cowboy?” he asked, drunk. Yes, he was far past the point of subtlety, moving into a state of delirium. “Haven’t you had a bit too much to drink yourself?”

“I didn’t hear you making any valid excuses.”

“I didn’t know I was expected too.”

Dean shrugged, grumbling to himself something completely nonsensical before emptying his apron pockets into the register and locking up the till for the night. When he’d done this, he grabbed his duffle bag from under the bar counter, snaking the keys up from one of the well-hidden drawers and heading out from behind the table. He was now in reaching distance of Cas who was watching him, unmoving. He had an extremely straight posture for someone who’d downed half their weight in liquor. 

“What is the plan then, might I ask?” Cas mused, hand resting against the marble counter for what Dean could only guess was a well-masked support system. “Seeing as you’ve so graciously offered to drive me home.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“I wouldn’t be disinclined to refuse if offered, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Alright, then I’ll drive you home.”

He smiled again, this time with his teeth showing. It took all of Dean’s strength not to simply stand there and stare at him for a whole of ten minutes just taking in the general splendor. It was a beacon, really. A lighthouse that he couldn’t seem to avoid. 

Dean lead the way out the front entrance, setting the alarm and locking the doors behind him. It wasn’t until he was outside in the parking lot that he felt a shrill ounce of regret seep its way back up his spine. Maybe it was the sudden shock of cool April air, or the smell of freshly fallen rain that had woken his senses to the position he had landed himself in. Just that, he was treading a pretty fine line for a very fine pair of eyes. 

“I’m guessing this one’s yours?” Cas asked, pointing towards the only car left in the parking lot. Dean’s attention returned back from the reclusive state when the topic of his baby was brought up, beaming for a moment with pride as he strode towards the large, black hood of the massive car he’d been driving since he was a teenager.

“She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala,” he stated brazenly, hand slapping against the well polished roof with a little more gusto than was generally thought appropriate by him. “Mint condition. Rebuilt her a couple times myself.”

“She’s beautiful,” Cas replied simply, and he honestly appeared as if he were admiring her, pressing his fingers very gently against the bumper only once before recoiling as if he’d hurt her exterior with just a small touch. “She suits you, in a way, you know?”

This was one of the nicest thing anyone had ever said to Dean. At least, in his eyes, it seemed. 

They both slumped into the vehicle – Dean with an easy swing whereas he nearly misled himself past the front seat whilst Cas opened his own door gingerly with that same hesitance that had drawn him away from the polished chrome. When he was safely seated, he barely touched anything around him and sat very still in that same manner. 

“Whereto, Cas?” he asked, enjoying the sound of the other man’s name of his tongue, more so than he probably should have. 

“Corner of 5th and Baker,” he replied softly, peering over once before turning his eyes back towards the windshield. He seemed to have lost himself completely in thought, catching little things with his big eyes and not really showing any of it in the cool turn of his perfect face. “I’ve got a loft over the abandoned garage.”

Dean knew the place well. Had it not been for the very fact he’d past i many times in his youth riding shotgun with his dad who would point it out every time. _That’s it there, Dean. That’s our legacy just waiting to happen._

He tried not to think of this. Instead, he put his keys in the ignition, and waited for the purr of the engine to kick-start him back into reality. Of course, he was nearly knocked completely out when Long, Long Way From Home by Foreigner blared out the speakers louder than he remembered having had it set to. He immediately went for the volume dial, passiveness turning into horror which slowly turned into relief. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, scratching at the back of his head with flushed cheeks. “I, er, I wasn’t aware that was going to happen and I… uh.”

“It’s okay,” Cas replied with that same nonchalant air as was displayed prior. It may have been more disconcerting than the loud music, which brought the anxiety up about three levels. “Let’s just go, kay?”

For the next ten minutes, they drove in silence, Dean with that same anxiousness brought on by not only Cas’ indifference but the fact that he’d also had a little bit too much to drink and driving might not have been the best of ideas. He seemed to be managing fairly well though if only because of the fact he was running off of a paranoia sobriety. He only turned to look at Cas once, caught sight of the other man’s eyes peering back at him coolly, then returned back towards the road in front of him, as if he hadn’t already been embarrassed enough. 

When he made it to the old garage, he drove the car up lazily along the cracked cement driveway, all weeds and rocks and poorly manicured grass. It was a dump, but the factory was still standing, the upstairs light still on. Yeah, it may not have been much, but Dean could respect the choice of dwelling. After all, he would have chosen the same for himself if it hadn’t been for Sammy and his little two-bedroom apartment on Main street with a steam shower and a stovetop that couldn’t light you on fire. 

“So, I guess this is it then,” Dean said, not making a move to get out, though for some strange inkling, he felt he probably should have. He just stayed in the front seat, hands on the wheel, eyes on the windshield as if he were still driving even with the engine off. His nervousness was palpable. He could feel it oozing out his pores. 

“I suppose you might be right, Dean Winchester,” replied the other man, stoically. 

After a few seconds, the familiar creak of the passenger door signaled the abruptness of Cas’ of exit. And, before he could hunker down and simply let it happen, he felt the other man’s name bubble up over his lips for a countless time that evening, this time of it’s own accord. 

“Cas!”

The other man was in the midst of hoisting himself up which he gave up on, plunking back down on the side of the leather seat. He pivoted his upper body so he could face Dean once more, a curiousness clearly visible in his heavy brow. The proximity was much closer than Dean was quite comfortable with, especially when the eye-contact was nearly impossible to break away from. 

“Yes?”

“I-uh,” he mumbled, clenching and unclenching his fingers spasmodically. He could feel his throat run dry, licking his lips nervously. “Er…”

“Would you like to come inside?” 

“Oh God yes.”

It was this spitfire reaction that brought the older man to lift his feet back in the car, scooting over in one fluid motion so he could press the pads of his fingers against Dean’s cheek, mouth coming forward to press ever so quickly against the other man’s in a movement that was direct and forceful. If this hadn't been enough to make the other man lose his shit, Dean watched with wide, confused eyes as the other worked his way over, pinning him against the front seat, straddling him in a way that was so out of nowhere it threw the young Winchester for a loop. But it was a good kind of chaotic. In fact, Dean was near blinded by sudden relief.

“I like this car,” Cas near purred, breaking the kiss for a brief second, no room to move past the small space between them due to the steering wheel jabbing into his back. But he didn’t seem to mind. Not even the slightest. “And the music, and the Jack Daniels, and your goddamn fucking eyes.”

Dean didn’t have the chance to respond. His mouth was once again being ravaged by those pale, pillow lips, hands tugging at his hair where they had rested. He could feel his body stir with that familiar tinge, and he may have just been drunk enough to lose himself to it. Which was why his own hands seemed to be pressing against the older man’s hips through the layer upon layer of fabric, not even altogether sure if he wanted to get out of the Impala anymore or not.

Cas’s lips parted from his own only to take their time nibbling along his jawline, down the expanse of his neck. The older man’s hands were running down his chest now, which was even more disconcerting seeing as there was only a thin piece of cotton between him and those tempting caresses. He leant his head back against the leather giving more purchase to his jugular and collarbone which Cas took advantage of near immediately. 

“House or backseat?” Cas asked, suckling along the artery with a determination that was stirring and exciting to say the least. 

“Backseat.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Dean struggled to free his pinned arm, losing his patience to Cas’ lips and hands and oh god, he didn’t want to move. He just wanted to let the man on top of him take full control in that ridiculously domineering way. And it was strange, different. The sensations were blurry but amped up from the whiskey so it was hard to discern much of anything other than the hurricane force pressing against him, his chest, his legs, his… god damn. 

“You’re hard,” the older man murmured, voice husky and deep as he grinded up against Dean groin, hips rotating in a way that was oh-so-dirty, and Dean could feel the outline of the other man’s cock pressing up against his own. Could feel the hot, rushed breath against his neck, his lips. He wanted to kiss the other man, to feel the itch of stubble against his chin, his cheeks. To gain access to the hot maw which he would generally tend to dominate if it hadn’t been for the force keeping him so still. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it to the backseat. 

“C-Cas,” he groaned, responding to a particularly off-beat thrust, tossing his head back again but this time not purposefully. “Damn Cas, slow you row, would you?”

“Why?” he asked, and there was that ghost of a smile. A flicker of amusement playing across the crinkles in his eyes. His hands were grabbing at the hem of the younger man’s shirt, slipping under than up along the skin of his torso, his chest. There was steady thrum beating away there, and a most uncomfortable throbbing down below. “I like things fast and impulsive.”

“I get that,” Dean groaned, fingers twisting into the khaki trench, wishing he could do more damage. Wishing he had more control. “Really, I do. I’m just a little out of my… oh _God_ , would you _stop_ doing that!?”

“What, this?” he asked, another direct thrust in the midst of those rotating grinds. It was enough to elicit a deep moan from Dean’s throat. “Or maybe…”

“Damn Cas, please!” he could feel the plea push past his lips in a way he’d never plead before. At least, not in any of his past sexual experiences, though he had taken a small amount of enjoyment whenever his partner begged in the same way. It was embarrassing, and he could feel the blood warm his cheeks and neck. “Backseat, now.”

“How could I possibly say no to that?”

It was a struggle getting out of the front of the Impala, seeing as there was barely enough room for either of them to move about in the first place, let alone managing to open the door, unfold Cas from his lap, and help the shorter man pivot himself out backwards. It only doubled in difficulty due to the fact that Cas was pretty fucking drunk and Dean was buzzed enough to not react in the same usual manner he was capable of. 

Even still, with all the obstacles before them, they managed to systematically remove themselves, one at a time, till they were both standing, panting, and leaning against the side of the car. 

“That was… difficult.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean huffed, a small but deep chuckle following shortly after. He felt giddy, and freed now that the night air was waking his senses a bit further. Giving him a small opportunity to recollect his thoughts. “Maybe we should take this one inside after all.”

“Hmm, let me think about that one,” Cas murmured, long pale finger pressed against the large upper-lip as if he were actually giving the option a lot of thought. After a moment, he smirked, and any chance of continuing in a bed was rendered nil. “Not a chance in hell.”

He stripped his trench-coat and jacket off in one fluid motion, dropping both oversized garments on the cracked pavement without the slightest care. Before Dean had the chance to even clutch at his belt, the older man was crowding him again, loosening his already unkempt tie before sliding it off in a way that was so utterly sexual it rendered the younger man completely motionless for a moment. This gave Cas the time to push him up against the side of the Impala, hard. 

“I want to fuck you, Dean,” he growled, and it was there. This territorial vibe that frightened the young Winchester for the first time that evening. So strong and controlling and sexy as hell, but scary, so much so the tides had changed drastically in the back of Dean’s head. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“I-uh, I’ve never, er,” he was sputtering, nerves alight, and cock so rock-hard it physically hurt, but Dean was no masochist, and he wasn’t about to get pushed into bottoming on his first ever sexual experiment with another guy, no matter how hot. “You see, this is, uh.”

Castiel stepped back, head cocked to the side in a way that staunched away the overpowering look about him. It was as if he completely switched cards in the matter of seconds. “Dean?”

“I’ve, uh. Well, I’ve kind of, er,” he grimaced, turning his eyes away toward anything but the big, blue, imploring ones that constantly tried to draw his attention back in again. “I’ve never actually been, uh, fucked by a guy before. Or, er, well, fucked a guy either, for that matter.”

There was a pause, and Dean could feel his embarrassment swell past the point of containment, seeming to empty itself out his pores. His hands were shaking, muscles twitching spasmodically, throat so dry he was sure it could have substituted for sand paper. 

He didn’t know how to respond, or if responding were even a legitimate solution anymore. Just that, if he hadn’t fucked things up already it would have been a miracle. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Dean felt the warm pad of fingers against his neck, thumb smoothing along his jawline patiently. It was enough to coax his eyes back up towards the older man, all calm, serene features. Big, wide blue orbs, a soft, parted mouth, and raised, worried brows. His head was still cocked ever so slightly so that his tussled hair fell against his the top of his forehead just barely. This, of course, brought on the sudden urge to push it up and back. To pull it taut.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, and Dean believed him. Truthfully, he had just been waiting for that confirmation and he’d of just fallen short of too willing to please. Too able to choose. He hadn’t been this turned on in God knows how long. Not even with Lisa, and that was his only really vivid comparison he could make to the situation at hand. 

He hoped it wasn’t because of the manhandling. 

Cas’ mouth pressed against his, soft and coy. A breath of a kiss rather than the mess of hard, deep, overwhelming life-suckers. It was enough to bring Dean’s eyelids to fall, arms wrapping around the other man’s shoulders in a way he’d never done before. And it was strange, bringing close the hard, broad body of the other man, pressing himself up against another stormy force. Another breadth of iron and metal instead of the sweet, gentle curve of wind and sun. He couldn’t mold the other into whatever it was he needed. There was no compromise in that dangerous push and pull. 

He could fight it all he wanted, but he would never win. The only option was to succumb fully. 

“Can I touch you?” Cas asked between kisses, hands dropping down so they could rub small circles along Dean’s sides with his thumbs. His shirt had ridden up again just enough that he could feel the skin of Cas’ palms against him, and it was not nearly enough. 

“Goddamn, yes,” Dean huffed only after having pulled his lips away long enough to respond. He was trying to pull Cas closer as if to crawl into his skin, trying to gain that friction again. And his cock was wide awake and as alert as ever. “Please, Cas.”

The other man groaned, pushing Dean back against the Impala. And the young Winchester couldn’t help but smile at the sudden spur in pace. So Cas liked to begged? He could manage that. 

“Yes, just like that,” he moaned, fingers snaking up into the older man’s hair. He could feel Cas’ fingers dragging down, pulling at his belt buckle with a headiness that was much too hasty for it to be the smoothest of removals. When this was done, though, his fingers pulled at the button, the zipper. “Oh God, hurry Cas. I’m begging you.”

“Get in the back,” Cas growled, and there was that spark. That fire in his gut. He nodded, breathless, letting his arms drop so he could fumble with the latch on the back of the front seat, letting it flip over so he could climb in. And he couldn’t move fast enough, Cas pushing in nearly on top of him, struggling to gain purchase of him while still managing to slam the door closed behind them. 

It was dark in the Impala, other than the dim streetlights that shone through the dewy windows. Dean could only make out the swell of Castiel’s cheekbones, and the smudge of blue along his brow while the other man crawled over top him with much more room now that Dean was semi-lying down. They had the whole expanse of the backseat to take up, which wasn’t a whole lot, but it was exhilarating. He watched, heart racing as the other straddled him, sitting tall so he could pull the white dress shirt up and over his head. Dean’s hands immediate grasped at the other man’s hips, steadying him. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Dean said, and the words were out there again, like a string having been pulled up and out from the corner of his stomach he’d tried not to acknowledge. It surprised him more that there was a certain amount of relief that swelled through him at the mention of it. He didn’t even know he felt that way until it was all spilling out of him. “I need you so bad, Cas, like I’ve never needed anything.”

He was certain he could hear that damn smirk in Cas’ laugh then, the older man leaning down again so their lips could meet in that overwhelming clash. Dean could feel those hips gyrate against his own, and the friction was delicious, sending swells of glorious arousal through every nerve, bubbling over in ways that he wished he could bottle up. He just wanted those fucking thighs to grip him tighter. Those hands to pull at his hair, his shoulders. 

“I want you naked,” Cas murmured against his ear, and there were teeth raking against his earlobe, saliva warm and tongue flicking the soft appendage in a way that left the younger man reeling. “I want to rip this fucking shirt off so badly.”

“Do it,” Dean edged, almost as harshly, thrusting up to meet the devilish rotation, and he was met with the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. Cas threw his head back, letting out a surprised yelp followed by a string of cusses. He grasped Dean’s hair, tugging his head back roughly. 

“Easy there cowboy,” Cas said, voice gravelly and breath thick. Even still, Dean could hear the amusement there, and he knew he’d done good in the other man’s eyes. “Let’s get these clothes off first, okay?”

“Sure thing, cap.”

There was a sudden tear, which took the younger man by surprise as he watched Cas pull the black material apart as if it had been made of paper. Had he not been in the position he was in, he might have been a little perturbed by the fact that Cas had actually gone through with it seeing as he’d only three work shirts to begin with. But it was utterly sexy watching the other man rip away at the barrier between them, and he couldn’t justify his anger long enough to feel any at all. 

Last of the things to go was pants and shoes. Dean watched as the other man removed himself from Dean’s legs just enough so he could help the other shimmy his levi’s and boxers down, the young Winchester struggling to kick off his hiking boots in the midst which he just managed to do in time. He could feel the cold night air hit his lower regions, sending shrill jolts from the bottom of his feet all the way up to the hairs on the back of his neck. Every part of him was sensitive with anticipation, lighting up at the smallest breeze or the touch of Cas sliding against him by accident. He could barely contain himself, hand reaching for his swollen member already red and dripping with pre-cum. 

He had been so preoccupied with his own ministrations that he hadn’t much paid attention to the stripping Cas until the older man was straddling him again, naked but for a chain with some small bottle around his neck and the pair of socks he hadn’t quite kicked off yet. 

And there it was. Another man’s cock shadowed above him, jutting out and looking just about as ready to let loose as his own. He wanted to touch it and yet was extremely afraid of doing just that. Instead, he stared, gulping, hoping the other would continuing making those first moves. 

“I’ve always wanted to have sex in an old car,” Cas said suddenly, and it was so abrupt and so random that it brought the younger man’s eyes back up away from that cock to the shadowed face. He couldn’t handle the wait any further. He was so tired of waiting to be touched. “Though you are quite a lovely addition to those fantasies. How am I ever going to fantasize again without you?”

“Cas, I’m so hard,” Dean groaned, rolling his hips helplessly, but there was no friction to be met with. Not when the older man was leveled above him, having yet lowered that weeping cock to meet his own. “Please, touch me. I need you to touch me, Cas.”

“I like that pretty little voice of yours,” he continued as if not aware of the stress the other was under. “That little whimper in your tone. It’s really quite lovely.”

This was torturous. Dean applied more pressure to his cock, pumping at it on his own, unwilling to wait any further. He needed to cum so badly. He could feel it rolling over his system like a tidal wave. 

Suddenly Cas’ hand snapped at Dean’s wrist sharply, voice booming with authority as he tugged the younger man’s hand away. His face had lit up with something pretty close to anger. “All good things for those who wait, Dean Winchester.”

 _For fuck’s sake._ Dean squirmed, no longer attempting to touch himself, though he couldn’t handle it. He needed something. Anything. He just couldn’t handle being blue-balled like this. 

Cas, on the other hand, seemed quite content with taking his time. He leaned down, not bending his knees to give purchase to that sweet friction. Instead, his hands ran down Dean’s chest, lips latching onto the pale flesh of the other man’s collarbone, nipping and sucking in a way that brought Dean’s voice back to life. Moans and whimpers and profanities that he would have been embarrassed about in any other occasion. His hands grabbed at Cas’ shoulders instead, rolling his hips once more with very little success. 

“You’re so sensitive,” Cas mumbled against his skin, tongue running along his pecks, teeth nicking at his left nipple. This elicited a sharp moan, followed by a grumbled ‘fuck’. “I like this part the best. The build up.”

“Fuck you,” Dean grunted, tossing his head back again when Cas’ fingers flicked at his other nipple. “Goddammit, Cas!”

He only laughed again, hovering over in that same ease. That same controlling stature. “I wonder if I could make you come without having to touch you.”

This was not something Dean wanted to test. He could feel the panicked whimpers now, rolling off his tongue while the other smoothed along his hands along the breadth of Dean’s lower stomach, right under the navel, then down lower, in the hollow below the jut of his hipbones. He then skipped over, massaging the young Winchester’s upper thighs. 

“Will you come for me like this?” he asked, and Dean was starting to wonder if maybe it was Cas who had the tolerance of a Greek God. There was no way someone as drunk as what he should have been could take this much time getting down to the naughty bits. 

“What happened to fast and impulsive,” Dean grated, tossing his head to the side as if it would do him any good. “You’re fucking toying with me.”

Another laugh. He was just about ready to lose it. “I changed my mind.”

After another thirty seconds of massaging and sucking and kissing and moving about, Dean was nearly about to lose it. He couldn’t handle the anticipation any further. It was just too much, too strong. “Oh God, Cas. I’m gonna come. I need to come some badly, Cas.”

The older man lowered his hips then, and he could feel the press of Castiel’s cock against his own, thick and hot and swelled. He moaned at the feel of it, fingers lacing through Cas’s hair, tugging hard. His hips stuttered up before he had the chance to think about it, sending a wave of pleasure throughout his entire core. 

“Good boy,” Cas replied hotly, pressing his chest down against the other man’s so their cocks sandwiched together. He then began thrusting, slowly at first, which Dean fought to meet, then faster, because they were both hanging onto the edge by their fingernails and it wasn’t going to take much longer. “Oh god, oh fuck.”

“Right there, oh god, right there,” Dean responded, pushing himself as closely as he could to the other man’s cock, slick from sweat and pre-cum. He’d angled himself so he could counter-thrust, off-timed and enough to bring out the other man’s voice in a string of moans. “Yes, yes, fucking Christ.”

Cas’ hand slipped between them, grasping both of their members together which he pumped between his fingers, quickly and with a certain amount of reckless abandon. This brought the stimulation up by a good ten spikes in the meter, so much so that Dean could feel his nails raking along the other man’s ass cheeks, digging in in a way that must have been at least somewhat unpleasant for the him. 

“I’m going to come,” Cas grunted, forehead pressing against Dean’s, and the movement was so intimate that Dean could feel his eyes fluttering open widely from that half-lidded state, heart thumping maddeningly within his chest. Yes, he could see the finer details now. Could feel Cas’ hot breath against his own, and if it hadn’t been so utterly perfect, he would gave kissed the other right through orgasm. Instead, he watched, too much in awe at the strained face of the other man to let loose his own torrent of pent up frustration. 

When Cas came, his eyes screwed shut, and his nose scrunched up in a way that was so utterly primitive and sexual it almost made Dean lose his shit then and there. His body clenched up too, hips jutting spasmodically and stomach muscles contracting sharply. He had a beautiful stomach, the way it bent and curved with every final thrust. 

When he finally stilled, panting heavily, his brows had furrowed against Dean’s, lips pulled into a taut line for a moment as his hand slipped out from between them. It was covered in the aftermath. “You didn’t get off.”

“I was too busy watching you get off,” he replied, breathless. What he’d just experienced was something so utterly erotic and beautiful he would have been ashamed of himself if he'd missed out on it for his own carnal needs. He was still hot, and highly sensitive, and each little movement against him sent sparks up behind his eyelids. He just didn’t want to miss out on the show. 

Cas only grunted, pulled himself up slowly before sliding back onto Dean’s spread knees. The hand that hadn’t been covered in the older man’s cum was now grasping at Dean’s cock, pumping slowly in a way that was too much and not enough all at once. “Then let me return the favor.”

Before he could make an attempt to object, the blue-eyed man leant down in a way that seemed impossibly flexible, tongue jutting out along the base of the other man’s cock. He licked up the expanse of it slowly before reaching the pink and swollen tip, pressing a warm, chaste kiss in it’s wake. 

“Fuck!” Dean groaned, hands instinctively grasping at the older man’s hair, pulling it in the way he’d thought about since the start of their little escapade. That pillow-y upper lip ran down the length of him before that tongue snaking out again, raking along the vein in that bobbing motion. All patience and fucking talent. “Damn, Cas. I’m gonna, oh fucking Christ!”

After a few more seconds of those prior ministrations, the older man took the tip in his mouth, cheeks hollowed as he sucked pleasantly and tongue swirling around it for a moment before centering in on the slit. This elicited another load groan and a sharp hair tug, hips stuttered in so much so Cas had to hold him steady with that soiled hand. 

“Patience, patience,” Cas mouthed against the tip, looking up at Dean’s shadowed face, and though the younger man wished he could see those eyes better, he could still catch that glimmer in the dark back seat. 

After another moment, Cas let his tongue pan out, sheathing his teeth behind his lips so he could slowly push the younger man’s cock deeper into his mouth, one inch at a time. He then began to work the cock, hand pumping at the base and mouth sucking and bobbing rhythmically. He picked up pace when Dean’s voice began to peel out louder and more frequently, signaling that he was getting ever closer to the edge, until finally, and with a sharp tug, Dean warned Cas of his approaching release through a string of profanities. 

It wasn’t until he realized that Cas wasn’t coming up that the release hit him hard, rocking him back so heavily he nearly screamed for want of a better reaction. The mouth on him seemed to be sucking him completely dry, including all of his energy which went from a pinnacle high to rock bottom within seconds. Even his hands, which had been tangled up in tufts of brown hair, dropped from their tight grip. 

“Shit,” Dean groaned, staring up at the dark roof of the Impala. Had it not been for the other man moving about on top of him, wiping his mouth on the side of his hand, he would have simply let his eyes fall shut. Yes, sleep would have been beautiful. “I-uh. That was fucking brilliant.”

“Good,” Cas replied, and before he could register the movement, the older man was pushing him closer to the back of the seat, slipping himself in the small space created. His back was to Dean, shoulders shuffling for a moment while he got comfortable. The young Winchester could only smile at this, because it was awkward and tight and uncomfortable and there was a bed only thirty or so yards away, but neither of them were willing to move. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“There’s a blanket under the seat there.”

“Duly noted.”

It didn’t take too much longer than that for sleep to come. They had no idea how late it was, or if either of them had previous engagements for the morning. Just that Cas was asleep in the circle of the younger man’s arms, and Dean never wanted to move again.


	2. A Red Dawn for Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean find's himself in an inner debate on what he wants and what he needs, and Castiel's secret world comes roaring in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, just warning you now, there is no smutty goodness in this chapter. All plot and character development. But otherwise, I thought I would front a head into the physical plot of their relationship, or what will come of said relationship. 
> 
> Oh and happy Sam. Because happy Sam is the best kind of Sam. 
> 
> Anyways, here you go;

Chapter 2: A Red Dawn for Castiel 

There had been many times Dean had woken up in a state of sheer panic. Mostly when he found himself in some foreign bed after having had far too much to drink with someone whose name he couldn’t remember. Sometimes he did, and she’d be sleeping still, curled into the clutch of his arms, or awake and cooking breakfast downstairs. He had been kissed good morning, and kneed in the crotch. Been given a cup of coffee in bed, and cussed at for a good half hour before he could manage to scramble out the backdoor. Many overlaying experiences that melded into one certainty. Dean never liked the morning after. 

Which was why, when he blinked his eyes open and felt that first stab of his creaked neck, he let out an unintentional sigh. 

It was cold in the Impala that morning seeing as there had been no heating during the period in which he’d slept, the only warmth gained from having had that clammy body pressed against his own. And it had been nice, in a way. Lying naked under a scratchy old blanket, listening to the other man breathing when he woke for the first time. It had been a strange, but a soothing lullaby to him, basking in that steady heartbeat. So much so he had let himself get carried away into sleep once again.

But now he was quite awake, and quite alone. His arms were empty, body having managed to stretch out on it’s own in void of the other presence. The sun was peaking up just below the horizon now, coloring the sky bright hues of red and copper and fuchsia which shone through the dewy windows almost blindingly. Yes, it was time to get up and going. 

After a moment’s hesitation and a somber groan passing through his lips, Dean pulled himself up slowly, gripping at the leather of the backseat so he could hoist himself into a sitting position. The blanket fell of his shoulders, pooling around his lap which he scooped up and tucked under the seat back in it’s spot, a warm reminder of the little experiment. When he’d finished this, he reached for his discarded jeans and briefs, slipping them both on at the same time. 

It was around this time that he found the wreckage of his t-shirt. A black wad of torn fabric just lying there under the passenger seat, forlorn as nothing had ever looked. Dean picked it up, grimacing. “Damn, Cas.”

His belt was most likely still lying on the ground beside the front wheel where Cas had dropped it in haste. This he would need to grab before he made his speedy exit. No need to bring up those awkward morning after conversations if he could avoid it. After all, it didn’t appear Castiel was the type to give that morning kiss and cup of coffee. 

After some more necessary readjusting and a quick finger run-through of his messy bed-head, Dean shoved the back door open, listening to those familiar hinges creak in a way that was almost pleasant. At least, there was nothing more pleasant to the young Winchester than to enjoy the little things about his childhood friend. 

It only took a few seconds past that point for him to catch onto the figure hunched over on the hood of the car, warmly lit in the early morning sunshine. At first, he’d thought the sight of the other man – just relaxing there with one knee pulled up, feet and chest bare - was some kind of a strange hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. It didn’t take long for him to realize, though, that it wasn’t a dream. Cas was there, and he’d re-adorned his trench coat, which blossomed out around him like an effervescent barrier. 

God was he ever beautiful lit up like that. The skin of his face was flushed pink, blue eyes so pale they seemed nearly white as he stared up at the sunrise, seeming not to take any notice of the other man’s presence. His hands were gripping at that one knee, foot against the bumper keeping him elevated in that same spot. And Dean had no fear of any dents in the exterior of his baby. The man looked light as a feather, perched atop the black hood. 

He had a serene expression, like there was nothing more he could have asked for. That he had everything he needed right there in that start of a new day. It was breathtaking. 

“Morning,” Dean said, voice cracked. He grimaced at the sound of it, but regained composure when those blue eyes lowered and turned, a pleasant flick in his direction. There was the ghost of a smile gracing those pale lips. 

“Good morning, Dean Winchester.”

So it wasn’t over. The heavy brick was still threatening to sink his ship. He was still utterly moved by the presence of the other man in ways he’d never been moved by anyone before, and he couldn’t understand why. Just that he wasn’t about to go anywhere. At least, not yet. 

It only took a few seconds for the young Winchester to push himself up onto the hood next to Cas, careful not to scratch the paint or damage the finish. It was difficult seeing as he never simply perched on anything. Dean was no lightweight and he didn’t expect his body to gain the same grounds the smaller, more slender man could. 

When he was seated comfortably, he turned his eyes towards that of the other man whose attention was solely directed back on that morning sky. And it reflected in the peaceful glow about him, all warm yellows and reds and gold’s. It took away that coldness about his posture and replaced it with a picture of what he could only assume was inner enlightenment. Something he felt to a certain degree, and it warmed him too, swelling like a pool about his stomach and up his throat. It was the first genuine feeling he had let take hold of him in months. 

“It’s beautiful,” Cas said, and he was smiling again, all twitched lips and crinkled eyes. He let his hand fall away from his knee, pressing against the warmed hood. A simple action that spurred an inner battle in the other man, whose own hands flexed impatiently. He wanted to touch his palm against the top of Cas’, but refrained. “Don’t you think so, Dean?”

“Yes, you are.”

It was cheesy, and he felt that stab of regret well over him the moment it left his lips, and though Cas had seemed to not be affected by it, there was a darker flush to those cheeks. It made it almost worth it. 

“Sorry,” Dean added, scratching the back of his head. “That usually works on the ladies.”

Cas shuffled about then, readjusting his legs so they were set more comfortably positioned, both knees pressed against his naked chest, and the black material of his dress pants tugged taut across his skinny legs. His eyes flicked back towards Dean only briefly, catching eye contact for a half-second before flicking back near shyly. It was strange, watching him move about so awkwardly. The only impression he’d received from the older man the night prior was that he was a domineering smart ass with a habit of playing hard ball. Now, though, there was a whole new facet to his personality, and it was cute as hell. 

As if realizing he needed to say something, Cas shuffled again, stretching out his shoulder a few times before scratching at his own sex-hair. And boy did it look nice all trussed up and perfect. It made the warmth swell in Dean’s abdomen for a second time which he quickly suppressed. “I-uh, I sometimes sit up on the roof when there’s a particularly vibrant sunrise. I thought this might have been a nice change.”

“It is,” Dean confirmed, but he wasn’t watching the sunrise. He hadn’t from the start. “I’m not complaining.”

“Do you ever watch the sunrise, Dean?”

The question was a simple one and yet, for some reason, it stung a bit. Maybe because he worked night shifts and rarely ever got up before ten. It could also have been from the very fact that Dean hadn’t watched a sunrise since Sam was a kid, and hadn’t found the need for doing so since. He’d been fourteen at the time, still budding into adulthood. Still reckless and wild for life. It seemed like a spiral since then. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

Cas frowned, but said nothing. He was oddly intuitive that way, seeming to catch onto the touchiness of the subject. Instead, he flicked his eyes over lazily, seeming to lose his own interest in the morning sun.  
“You seem like the type who let’s time slide through your fingers,” he said, and it was calm, composed. “Even if you wanted to see it, I should doubt you’d ever manage to do so.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he replied simply. Quirky. “And I think you know it, too.”

Dean shrugged, lacing his fingers together momentarily. It was an odd observation, though he couldn’t deny there was a certain fragile stretch of truth to it. Time was of little importance mostly, but it sure as hell passed quickly. “And you see yourself differently?”

He paused for a moment, a look of deliberation fading across his stony features. When he answered, he was softer. “No, I guess not.”

“But _you_ watch the sunrise,” Dean jested, pushing his hand against the other man’s shoulder playfully. When the vague emotion hadn’t seemed to change in Cas’ features, the young Winchester immediately cooled his tone. “Is that not enough for you?”

“I observe, but I rarely ever touch.”

Cas turned his eyes away from Dean, towards the sunrise that was now just breaching day. And it was sad, in a way, watching it go. There was never enough time for the beginning, and once it was done, you had to fight through the rest of the day hoping it wouldn’t end it darkness. Like everything ended in darkness. Like this would, inevitably, fall into it’s own shades of black and grey. 

Dean didn’t want to think about that. No, not yet.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, changing tactic. “You seem to break my exterior apart in minutes but I can’t even begin to understand you.”

“I’m not special,” he replied simply. 

“That’s not a good answer.”

“Nothing ever is.”

Dean could feel a sigh pass his lips, running a hand through his hair in an almost exasperated attempt at not letting the other man’s passive manner get the better of him. Instead, he closed his eyes briefly, took a long deep draught of air in through his nose, then tried again. 

“You’re a writer?” he asked, and this made the other man outwardly cringe. “I heard you say it last night.”

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose then as if the subject troubled him terribly. He looked up once, lip quirked in that pained grimace. “A fantastically large failure of a writer, actually, if we’re being quite literal.”

“And I’m a bartender with no dreams or wants other than to hopefully move out of my brothers apartment one day,” Dean added, smiling weakly. “We seem to be floating down the same lazy river.”

Cas wound his hands together slowly, desperately. And it was sad, watching him look so torn as he wafted through his own emotions. Sad because he didn’t know how to approach his life objectively. Justifiably. It wasn’t a far cry from what Dean had always felt about his own sense of self, and belonging. After all, he never addressed what he preferred to smother in a bottle of Jack. 

Just, neither of them knew how to be anything other than massive, waste-of-space fuck-ups. 

“Do you think we make bad decisions because we can’t change the things in ourselves we hate?”

The question was so blunt and so outright, Dean could feel the breath hitch in his throat. He stared at Cas, brow furrowed for just a brief moment before cooling into something calmer, raised in a more appropriate, surprised emotion. He didn’t know how to answer. Hell, there wasn’t an answer, and it swelled up so abruptly, he had to turn his head away.

It wasn’t a question. It was a truth. 

Cas spoke, this time approaching into a deeper corner that should have stayed untouched. And he did so with a smile. “I sometimes think, maybe, I deserve it. Not being anything, achieving anything. I’ve never learned how to love myself. And maybe that’s why I like you so much, Dean Winchester.”

There was nothing he could say to that. Nothing that would make it inherently better. Nothing that would justify Castiel, or even himself. Because, for the first time since he’d been caught in the other man’s glance, he’d realized just how similar they were. And how much of a mistake it had been. 

He grimaced, resting his elbows against parted knees, head cradled in the palms of his hands. Yes, Dean had royally fucked up. He’d made love with the things he couldn’t change in himself. He’d openly sought the comfort of his own arms because accepting the embrace of someone up on that higher pedestal was not fair to them. Not fair to someone like Lisa, who only wanted to make the pain go away.

Dean had seen many faces, and heard many stories, but it never made him any better. It just made him less lonely. 

“God, Cas, I’m so sorry,” he said finally, and he meant it. “I’ve got to go, or something. Fuck man, I’m just-, goddamn.”

He slid himself off the hood of the Impala, falling into a worried pace as he gripped his hair and shook his head and clenched his shoulders up so tight he could feel the muscles strain under skin. This was the pinnacle of his life, all knotted and frayed.

“Stay.”

It was deep, and abrupt. Enough so that it brought the other man’s eyes up from his escalating panic attack. The other man was staring at him now, expressionless. And it was so hard not to look at him. A statue of some avenging warrior from heaven, he was. 

“No, No I’ve got to get out of here, I-.”

“Stay,” the other repeated calmly. His slid himself off the sleek black metal as well, smooth, weightless and poised. He only stopped moving when he’d placed himself directly in front of the other man, systematically stopping the other’s nervous pacing. “With me, here.”

“I can’t Cas. I’m really fucking messed.”

“I like your disaster, Dean,” he replied simply. No falter. It was almost enough to soothe the superficial burns. “I’ll be good to you, I swear. Just stay with me. Stay with me and I’ll be so good to you.”

He shook his head, and those regretful tears were stinging behind his eyelids, but he wasn’t willing to cry like some chick. Not in front of that near cold face that implored him to speak. Asked for more of him than he was willing to give. “I’m sorry.”

Cas’ hand reached up, fingers pressing against the younger man’s cheek briefly, brows furrowing for just a moment as he searched in vain for a way to make the pain go away, but there was nothing to find, and there was nothing that could be done. Dean learned this a long time ago. Why he’d never let anyone try. 

“Goodbye, Dean Winchester.”

With that, Castiel side-stepped around the younger man, shoulder pressing against Dean’s only briefly before he walked up the driveway and into the front door of the old garage. The sky was a cool cyan now, the sunrise long over. 

\-- 

Do it right, with a smile. 

Dean didn’t remember much of the ride home, other than the fact that it’d been cold, and that he’d let a few of those pent up tears out. He’d let his mind wander in every direction he could, spilling over countless insecurities and things he could have done better. Over Sam and his perfect little apartment, and how he’d seemed to move the way wind moved. Seeming to glide into each situation, sometimes with an assuredness that was beyond his age, and sometimes softly, just managing to squeeze himself through the cracks. 

Dean was a tree. He couldn’t move, couldn’t change. He simply stayed in the same spot and dealt with the ever worsening conditions. 

When he’d pulled into the inside parking lot, he’d barely managed to contain himself. It wasn’t like things could be the same. Not really. Maybe because he’d liked holding his nose just above water, and it was how he learned to manage with his demons. Maybe that was all he could expect from his life. After all, Cas had said it clearly. He couldn’t change the things he hated in himself. And there was nothing more to it. 

But his world was as fragile as it was a secret, and that little blue-eyed stranger had stomped all over it in a matter of hours. 

Dean took the stairs that morning, mostly trying to avoid everyone he possibly could, and not just because he lacked a shirt. It wasn’t until he’d reached the apartment door that he felt his body lapse into a full blown fit, fumbling with the keys in a way he’d never done before. Hell, he couldn’t recall the last time he cried. Just that it had been so long ago the dredge of tears seemed almost bursting at the very seams. 

When he finally managed to scramble across the threshold, he was greeted with two sets of eyes peering up from the kitchen table simultaneously. _Shit fucking timing_. 

“Dean?” Sam stood, chair sliding back loudly across the linoleum floor. His hair was messy and there were bags under his eyes, probably from a good long night of studying, but he looked good. Tall and muscled and swathed in plaid, the way he should always have been. It kicked another hole in the older Winchester’s dam. “What the hell man, are you alright!?”

Jess had also looked up, brows furrowed and the concern quite visible in the curve of her lips. 

Dean didn’t answer. Instead, he turned down the side hall and disappeared into the first door on the right without so much as a gesture towards either person. He just didn’t have the energy to explain, and too much shame to keep him there long enough for any deductions to be made. He locked the door, just in case.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion and emotion, he let himself crash against his bed, face first into the pillows. He didn’t bother with his jeans and made no move towards the door when the thumping was heard against it and the pleas to open up. He didn’t even bother breathing for a moment, letting his heart patter frantically as if he’d have the sustainability to kill himself by self-hatred, but this was quickly ended. And sleep came to take him away instead. 

\--

Dean woke up eight hours later, nearly knotted completely into the sheets after having tossed about for the first couple hours. In his sleep, he’d managed to kick off both untied boots and even one of the woolen socks he hadn’t remembered re-adorning. The bed was warm though and the pillow so absolutely inviting, it almost made him temporarily forget everything that had occurred. 

Fortunately for him, though, when the waves of memory came storming back, he had the right sense to blame most of it on his lack of sleep. The slow-burning pain was bearable. He even tested out his own smiles while he laid there, making sure that was still something he could do. A nervous habit and one he’d been doing ever since his father died. 

Yes, he could still smile. He was smiling away like an idiot. 

With a little more effort than he was sure should have been necessary, Dean pulled himself up, untying the blankets from his lower half. He stretched his muscles out briefly, applied a bit more pressure into that creak in his neck, then grabbed the towel from the back of his desk chair. 

After a quick shower, which Dean had enjoyed thoroughly, the older Winchester dressed in fresh jeans and a burnt orange plaid shirt which he buttoned up over a white v-neck, smoothed out the cowlicks in his ever increasingly uncontrollable hair, and headed out towards the kitchen for a mid-afternoon snack. It wasn’t surprising to find Sam still there, still pouring over some complicated textbook with his laptop balanced precariously on a stack of lined paper. There were wrappers too, and used cups scattered around him. By this time, Jess had gone home. 

When the younger Winchester noticed the presence of his older brother he quickly shut his laptop, standing up now with that worried crinkle in his brow. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched as Dean slumped across the kitchen floor, small sliding steps carrying him towards the fridge which he opened. After some silent deliberation, he grabbed the half-eaten apple pie off the top shelf, a fork out of the counter adjacent drawer, then settled himself down at the island, not wanting to disrupt his brother’s studying. By the time he had his first bite, the questions began. 

“Are you okay?”

There was a tone there, soft and imploring, but very much Sammy. This was a territory he approached lightly now, seeming to have learned from his earlier mistakes. After all, Dean really didn’t like it when people were overly pushy about getting to the heart of the problem, his brother included. 

“I’m fine,” he replied simply, taking another large bite. He let out a large groan, smiling. “Man, we’ve got to get more of this.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Dean grimaced, dropping his fork against the tin of his pie tray, staring ahead blankly. He didn’t bother looking at his brother incase it meant being forced to see the disappointment, the worry, flooding over his ample features. The look of concern would have killed him. “I know.”

After a minute or two of silence, Sam’s voice cracked, and he spoke in a rushed manner, as if trying to make his opinion known without giving the other a chance to interrupt. “You know, if there are things you want to talk about or if there’s anything going on, you can tell me about it, right? You don’t have to bottle it all up like you do, and I can try and help if you’d let me. Really, I want to be there for you, you just have to let me in sometimes.”

“Sam.”

“I mean, if there’s anything I can do,” he continued, near flustered. “Or anything I can get you, just let me know and it’s done. I’ll even go and get you another fucking pie if it makes things better, so just let me know, okay? Don’t lock me out like you always do-.”

“Sam!”

The younger Winchester paused, features cooling for a second before morphing into an expression of complacency, much as was his habit. Of course he would take offense. 

“I don’t know why you choose to keep yourself all tied up in knots all the time,” he stated plainly, and there was that disappointed furl in his brow. That quirk in his fallen lip. He spoke in a tone that was devastating. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean rested his head against his open palm, regretting the fact that he’d ever decided to come out of his room. Sam was in a particularly outspoken mood and it wasn’t going to be ended in a way that was comfortable for either person. If Dean didn’t talk, Sam would continue his tantrum until walking off and, in turn, continuing on in that moody state for God knows how long. And if Dean did talk, well. That was just not something he feared he could ever do. 

“I appreciate that about you, Sammy,” he said finally, and smiled weakly. When he looked up, his brother was staring back with that same solidity. Those same tight fists. “I do, but something’s are better left untouched.”

This seemed to surprise both Winchester’s, mostly because it was the first time Dean had ever tried to explain himself. And even though he said nothing, it caused another big kick in that dam. Another hole in that cracking wall. Dean turned his eyes towards the pie, trying not to think about that blue-eyed man with the pretty eyes and the shitty outlook on life. Sure, he’d said he’d do him good, but fuck. There was just no way of testing it. 

“Where were you last night?” Sam asked. He sounded calm now, and closer. He was taking a seat at the kitchen island, resting his elbows against the marble countertop. His brows were furrowed, lips pulled taut across his mouth, jaw heavy. “You can tell me.”

Dean turned his eyes away again, grimacing. So this was going to happen. He dug his nails into his palms spasmodically, knowing full well there would be little crescent-shaped cuts in the flesh there at a later inspection. “With someone.”

“Lisa?”

“No, not Lisa.”

“Someone you met at the bar?”

He nodded, jaw clenching. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck draw in tightly, defensively. Sam merely nodded, letting this new piece of information wash through him for a moment before continuing on. 

“Did she say something to you?” he asked, and it was soft. A near whisper. His hand came up to press against Dean’s shoulder, which made the other man twitch involuntarily, uncomfortable. 

And this was the moment of truth. Something he hadn’t thought he’d be brought to, and it made the bile rise up his throat. Yes, if had admitted it himself, he may have wanted Sam to know, but he didn’t feel the other could ever understand. After all, to Sam, there had only ever been Dean. Now that he was older, he had the chance to grow up and away. Something the older Winchester hadn’t let himself do. 

He took a deep, shaky breath, then spoke. 

“Yes, he did.”

And there was the shock. The confusion first, which flooded across his brothers features in a quick succession, then the understanding, which was a curious expression, as there was no reproach, but nothing that outwardly gave them impression that he was okay with it. And, at first, this came as a relief. Maybe more than Dean would ever admit to feeling. 

“Oh.”

After a few more seconds of silence, Sam shuffled in his seat, turning his eyes towards the countertop, then the wall, and there was an inward battle inside him. Maybe for lack of common grounds, or a new budding disappointment? Dean couldn’t assume anything, and he didn’t want to. If Sam was disappointed in him, it was what he deserved. He was disappointed in himself. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Sam spoke. 

“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said, and there was a mask of shame now placed across his mouth. And not shame for Dean. Shame for himself. “I thought, if this ever happened, I would be more inclined to say something really poetic or inspiring, but I’m blanking.”

“ _If_ this happened?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You can’t expect me not to assume you might be even somewhat swinging for the other team with all that bar flirting. I didn’t want to voice said assumptions until something came of it, but you know. They were always sort of there.”

“Dude.”

“What?” he raised his hands defensively. “I’m just saying.”

For the first time since the situation began, Dean smiled of his own accord. So Sam wasn’t ashamed of him, not that he should have felt the other even capable of it. He was just too goofy and floppy-eared for ignorance, and in the older Winchester’s case, he couldn’t feel more than happy for this character trait. 

“Anyways,” Sam continued, steering the subject back towards Dean again with that effortlessness that made the subject seem a little more approachable. “This, er, guy. You like him or something?”

Dean paused, smile slipping for a moment. Yes, he’d approached each possible facet as to the reasons why he’d of got in that backseat with Castiel. Made notes of the way he’d felt when he’d had the other in his arms. Though there had been a swell of reproach he’d let sting him from the inside out when he’d realized just what he’d done, there was one thing he didn’t let himself dwell on. And it was the simplest question of all. 

“Yeah,” he said, surprising himself somewhat. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Sam smiled, and it was such a genuine expression. Like he’d been waiting for this day for far too long. Maybe he had been. Dean sure as hell felt that way on more than one occasion. “Dude, I need to meet this guy like ASAP.”

All the prior realization seemed to dissipate near immediately as these words registered in Dean’s head, leaving a nice, bitter track in their wake. He felt his expression fall for the second time, turning his eyes downwards. “There’s uh, no chance of that happening, Sammy boy.”

“How come?”

“I told him I fucked up,” he replied, tapping his fingers restlessly. “I sort of just, well, left.”

Sam looked damn near offended himself over this. “The fuck? Dean!”

“I was confused, alright?” 

“How could you be confused?” he continued, exasperated. “Dude, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Go over there and tell him you didn’t mean it. Goddamn, sometimes I still question how we’re even related.”

Dean frowned, but made no move to suggest this was something he should have found himself doing. No, he wouldn’t go back to Cas’s front door. He’d burned that bridge like he burned all his bridges, and there was nothing he wanted less than to be wrong. He couldn’t do that to Cas. 

“Well?”

“Well what?”

Sam shoved his shoulder motioning towards the door. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in that bloody fucking Impala and go fix your fucking mess.”

“I can’t.”

“You sure as hell can.”

Dean groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. Sam was right in the sense that he could get in that Impala. He could drive the short distance between their homes and make his presence known. Could even go so far as to grovel at the other man’s feet in a way that was completely unbecoming and probably increasingly more uncomfortable for both parties, but he knew he wouldn’t. And it was because he knew he shouldn’t. 

“I’m afraid I might be bad for him,” he said finally, and his tone was haggard, worn thin. “I’m afraid I might have had sex with him because he reminded me of myself, as fucking weird as that sounds.”

Sam looked honestly surprised by this, taking a moment to let the words register before he attempted to speak. And when he did, his mouth moved for a few seconds, no words coming out. 

“I know, I know,” Dean said, raising his hand as if to shush the other. “I’m a tool. I get it. I just feel like I’m looking for comfort in someone like me because I can’t honestly believe I deserve it anywhere else, you know? God damn, I’m a fucking wreck.”

Sam’s mouth moved again, and there was a small gasp in his throat before a torrent of laughter began spilling out of his lips. At first, the reaction came across as a surprise to the older Winchester, who watched his brother clutch at his stomach, tears damn near welling up in his eyelashes. It was enough to create a bit of unwanted tension. 

“Dude,” Dean stated peevishly. When the other hadn’t reacted, he shoved the other man’s impossibly large shoulder. “Dude, it’s not fucking funny.”

“Oh no,” Sam gasped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, trying to control his chuckles but with little success. He was grinning widely though as if the entire thing were some big joke. “No, this is fucking hilarious. Come on Dean. _Think_ about it. You won’t pursue a guy you honestly like because you think you’re addicted to what, _emotional masturbation_? Jesus fucking Christ.”

Though it probably wasn’t the best way of approaching the subject, Dean had to admit there was a certain effectiveness to it. He stared at his brother for a few minutes whilst the other calmed down, taking deep breaths as to not continue on with his laughter. When Sam was done, he smiled. 

“So, do you want to drive, or should I?”

“Fuck you, man.”

“No, shut the fuck up and get outside,” he stood, stretching his long, moose legs before grabbing the keys out of the pee-tree dish on the counter. He smiled wickedly. “You’re going, and I’m going to make sure of it.”

\--

The drive to Castiel’s had been quick and quiet on Dean’s part. Maybe because Sam hadn’t stopped talking since they got in, driving with a little more vigor than was his usual style. He’d poured over the situation. Over opportunities and occasions and family dinners. And how happy Bobby would be when he found out about this, because sure, Bobby would be totally cool with his favourite being a raging queer. 

By the time they’d pulled up the cracked cement driveway, Dean was about to bang his head against the window. Yes, he loved his brother immensely, but the dude was an absolute chick about this kind of stuff. 

“This place is a little creepy, don’t you think?” the younger Winchester said, eyeing the rusty old garage with a certain amount of trepidation. “This guy’s not a freak or a murderer or something, right?”

“I think he’s a writer.”

“Ah,” Sam hummed, but he didn’t look altogether convinced. Even still, he said nothing on the subject further than that, waiting patiently for the other to jump out of that front seat, eyes turning in the other Winchesters direction with a glint in those smooth, almond orbs. “Anyways, get going. It’s show-time.” 

“Can we not?” Dean grumbled, and it was a strange sound. After all, Dean was not one for complaining. “Let’s just turn around and call it a day. Try this again tomorrow or something-.”

“Dude, you’re not getting out of this one,” he replied sternly. “Now get your ass moving. I want results and I won’t let you back in until you provide them.”

“It’s my fucking car!”

“Go!”

Dean sighed loudly, but did as he was told, pushing the large car door open and letting out that friendly creak in the hinges once more. It helped soothe some of the aching nerves that were so piled up in his stomach he felt he was going to be sick. He dabbed his forehead with his sleeve, checked his teeth and hair in the side-view mirror once, then headed towards that large, rusty front door. 

When he raised his fist to knock, he could feel a dredge of confusion and self-reproach knock his insides about, and it laid pause for a brief moment to the action he was about to commit. Just enough so that the younger man was drawn still, heart pattering quite loudly within his chest in a way that wasn’t a normality on his part. Yes, he would have very much liked to have headed home then and pretending it never was. 

Before he could change his mind on the subject, the door in front of him opened up, the older man standing on the threshold in a navy blue housecoat and a lit cigarette perched precariously on the bed of his lower lip. It startled the young Winchester into nearly tripping off the front step, eyes wide. 

“Holy hell, Cas!”

“Dean?” he asked, and the look on his face went from stoic to surprised in seconds, reflecting more emotion than he’d seen the other show. It was highly disconcerting. “What are you doing here?”

“I-uh,” Dean grimaced, turning his eyes towards the Impala where Sam was giving him a thumbs up behind the windshield. “er, I, fuck, this was a bad idea.”

Before he turned his eyes back towards the older man, long fingers wrapped around his wrist gently, those confused eyes imploring and wide. Icy in color but in demeanor they were gorgeous. 

“No, please tell me why you came,” he said softly, and he was drawing him inside with gentle touches as if trying to soothe a fidgety horse. “Come, sit. I’ll make you a cup of tea. We can talk.”

“Sam’s in the car,” Dean said outright, as his mind blanked hopelessly. Yes, he wanted to go sit with Cas, and talk and eat and learn all he could about the coaxing, careful being in front of him. Hell, he was just about to forget his brother altogether. “I-er. Sam.”

Cas lips pulled down at the corners momentarily, his own eyes searching out the perpetrator of his not keeping the other man for a longer duration of time. When he  
met with the smiling face of Dean’s younger brother his expression softened as most expressions softened when met with that big lugging teddy bear of a man. It was a quality Dean had always felt mildly jealous of. 

In any case, Cas’ free hand slipped away from the base of Dean’s wrist, no longer attempting to sway the other into what he could only assume was the front hall. 

“He looks cramped.”

“Probably because he is.”

Another silent moment passed between them, and nothing needed to be said. At least, not as much as either of them were willing to admit. Dean kept his hands planted firmly at his sides, watching the other place the cigarette back against that lower lip, taking a deep drag before tossing it against the cement, slipper crushing out the final remains. The young Winchester had never liked smokers, but Castiel made it utterly sexy. 

“Why did you come, Dean?”

It was an honest enough question, and one he should have been prepared for. After all, it was the whole meaning of his little escapade. He needed Cas to understand. Needed him to be onboard with it as well. He needed a whole lot of things to happen and still couldn’t manage to find the right words to even suggest it. Grimacing, he ran his fingers through his hair, fighting the urge not to frown. 

“I just want to-uh, well. I guess I kind of-I,” he sighed, turning his eyes towards the step before letting out a timid breath. “-just wanted to say I was sorry. For running off like I did. It was a mistake and I could understand if you’re not altogether pleased with me ”

Cas’ head tilted downwards as if receiving a physical blow. And it was a strange reaction to observe seeing as he’d just apologized for being an ass. He had hoped to see something akin to relief. Not more pain. 

“I see,” he said mildly. His fingers intertwined against his lap, mouth pulling down at the corners in a way that was utterly heartbreaking. “Well, if that’s what you came here for, then I accept your apology. Have a nice life, Dean Winchester.”

Before he could register the statement given, the other had managed to both step back inside the door, and nearly had it slammed shut but for the foot the young Winchester had jammed in the way. It was a sharp pain seeing at the door was a lot heavier than it looked, but Dean only groaned, still trying to process the other man’s reaction. 

“Wait a second, Cas,” he said squinting, trying not to think about the throbbing in his foot. “I-uh, that’s not everything. Please, come back outside and talk to me, okay?”

There was more silence, a shroud of disbelief.

“I’m serious,” he added, resting his hand against the rusted door. “Just, please hear me out. Could you do me that much?”

After another brief silence, the door slowly pulled open, and the man was still looking as if someone had stolen his favourite shirt, but he was listening. And that was good enough for Dean. 

“I really fucking suck at talking,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He retracted his foot, stretching it out momentarily while he tried to come up with something more appropriate to say. Something that would make the older man understand. “I could win a medal for failing epically.”

“It’s okay,” Cas said, though he still looked as if he were about to head back inside. “Just tell it to me straight. There’s no need to fabricate anything for my benefit-.”

“I like you,” he said, and it was so rushed, it damn near felt punched out of his chest. He could feel a shroud of perspiration form across his brow. “Like, I don’t even know. A lot. And it’s weird because I don’t know if I really like anyone, ever. You get it? I don’t get it. Fuck, I should just stop talking.”

Cas stared at him, wide-eyed for a moment as if taking his own time to process the information splayed out in front of him. And it was nerve-wracking. So much so that Dean could feel his cheeks flush and his heart stammer in that way that was not even somewhat comfortable, let alone usual. He wasn’t a seventeen year old waiting for his prom-date to come down the stairs. He was a grown man, talking to an equally grown man, who was staring at him mutedly, not saying a word. 

“This would-er, this would be a good time to say something,” Dean said, and before his fingers could reach up into the tangle of his hair, a pair of lips smacked against his own roughly, nearly knocking him off the step for the second time that afternoon. 

Eyes wide and mouth hard, Dean stared at the closed ones of Castiel, hands raised in surprise and confusion at first before settling down on the other man’s shoulders timidly. And he could feel the warmth of the body against him, the longing pull as the mans hands grasping at his hips, his back. He melted into the kiss with some needed patience, but only briefly, as the other was pulling away right as soon as he’d gotten himself into it. This was probably for the better, knowing there was a good chance Sam had witnessed the entire spectacle from his front row seat. Even still, Dean had to fight the urge not to simply lean in again and capture those beautiful lips once more. 

“I promise I’ll be good to you,” Cas murmured, pressing his forehead against the young Winchester’s in that intimate gesture the other had felt damn near overwhelmed by the night prior. “I’ll be so fucking good to you, Dean Winchester.”

And Dean finally believed him. Maybe because he was scared shitless of what that could mean one day down the line. Maybe because he’d forgotten how wonderful beginnings could be, and how frightened he had been for letting one slip through the cracks before he had the chance of swatting it away. Yes, it was a red dawn for both parties, and a sunrise had never been more necessary for either of them. 

After a moment of standing there, arms wrapped around the other man’s shoulders, the Impala’s horn had been set off, loud and clear. Dean jumped, arms falling to his sides reflexively as he watched Cas do the same. “Goddamn it, Sammy!”

“I’m guessing he’s an impatient sort of fellow?”

Dean grimaced, nodding. “And he’s a little prick but he means well.”

Cas only smiled at this, grabbing Dean’s cheek in a slow, but sweet motion, before pressing his lips chastely against the other man’s. It was a sweet, peck of a kiss. The kind Dean had only felt on such rare occasions he could barely remember them, though he savored this one in a way he hadn’t known himself capable of. Yes, he wanted more of those. Many, many more. 

“Tomorrow night,” the older man said, and there was a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, eyes staring at Dean’s for longer than was necessary. “I’ll make you dinner. Come around seven-ish?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Wait here,” he said, and with that the other man’s hand slipped away from his skin, pivoting back into the front door where he left Dean standing, waiting. He didn’t know what the other man was looking for, or why it was necessary now. All he could think of was pressing his lips against the other man whenever and wherever he could. 

After a few minutes, the other man returned, writing something down on a little pad of post-it notes. When he’d finished this, he pulled off that first sheet before handing it to Dean. The older Winchester took one look at the highlighter yellow note and smiled. A sloppily written set of digits was what he was met with. 

“This time no goodbyes,” he said, and he reached up to press one last kiss against Dean’s cheek. “I look forward to seeing you again, Dean Winchester.” 

“You as well, Castiel -er,” he blinked, shuffling from one foot to the next. He could feel the embarrassment well up for yet another countless time. He hoped it didn’t show. “I-well. I uh, never caught your last name.”

This only seemed to spark the other’s amusement. He smiled, snaked the post it back from Dean’s grasp, then jotted something down quickly. When he passed it back, there was that quick glint in those icy eyes. 

“Novak?” Dean read, looking up to make sure he’d said it correctly. 

Cas tipped his head, hand gesturing mildly in a way that was reminiscent of the Victorian age. It was something Dean couldn’t help but be utterly charmed by. “At your service.”

Dean smiled, and it was yet another genuine expression. The kind that made his stomach churn and his hands get balmy, because there was no other reason not to feel completely, and ridiculously, excited. He’d feared this feeling long before he ever assumed he’d never find it, but now that it was heard making a xylophone out of his ribcage, he felt damn near intoxicated with happiness. Even if briefly. 

“See you tomorrow night, Castiel Novak.” 

When Dean returned back to the passenger seat of the Impala, he was sure there was an unnecessary amount of bounce in his step. Maybe a little two noticeable because Sam was glowing like some flare-gun sunbeam hybrid. He’d barely managed to get himself seated before the other was on him like a hawk to a baby rabbit. 

“Holy hell, Dean,” he said, shoving the other in a way that was meant to be playful but turned out to be a lot more painful than Dean was willing to admit. Probably because he was way to excited for no reason whatsoever, but the feeling was mutual, and they both ended up smiling like idiots. “You were a full on ace out there, jamming your foot in the door like a pro. No wonder he tried to give you mouth to mouth resuscitation.”

“Dude!”

“I’m just saying!”

Dean could only laugh at this. After all, what other kind of expression could you give when in that immediate bliss of having just been kissed? And he liked that, in a way, more than he liked the feeling after sex. More intimate and less disclosed. He would have damn near killed himself over those pillow-down lips. 

“I’m seeing him tomorrow night, for dinner.”

“That’s really awesome.” Sam was grinning now. “Honestly, I’m glad this is all working out.”

“Same, actually.”

Sam started up the engine then, and the music started playing and the sun was shining. And for a moment, things actually seemed really fucking good. The high of the moment was something Dean had wished he could try and bottle up, because there would be a moment, in an hour or two, when that doubt would hit like a bullet train. He would waddle in it, let it get piled up deep within his chest, and then the inevitable process of digging back out of it would begin. He hoped Cas would stick around through it. 

After a minute or two of this silent pondering, Sam spoke up. He had a calm expression now, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting against the clutch. “So, whose this guy anyways?”

“A guy I met at the bar.”

“Yeah, I get that, but _who_ is he? There’s something familiar about that face.”

Dean shrugged, leaning back in his seat. He was surprisingly tired again though he assumed it was under the influence of having his emotions kicked in the ass all day. Even still, a good night’s sleep would be necessary, and not one induced by hard liquor. 

“His name’s Castiel Novak,” the older Winchester said, yawning. “He’s a pretty decent guy when you get past the uptightness and the-.”

Dean was cut off in mid sentence by the sudden slam on the breaks. Reeling, he jumped up, confused and surprised, staring at the road for other cars or maybe a deer, or something that could have given reason as to why Sam felt the need to scare the living shit out of him, but all he was greeted with was a wide-eyed, white-knuckled little brother, face deadpanning towards Dean. 

“Castiel Novak?” he said, and he sounded in honest shock. “You mean _the_ Castiel Novak?”

“What the hell’s your problem?” Dean groaned, shoving at his brother in annoyance. “Of course I mean Castiel Novak. Calm your shit, man.”

Sam shook his head, chuckling in his own bought of exasperation. When he looked back up, his deep laughter resounded. “Holy fucking hell, Dean.”

And there was that unspoken communication. Sam looked positively enamored by the irony of the situation, in which Dean still hadn’t quite caught himself up with, though he knew it had to be there. After all, Sam never reacted like this. Never seemed overly attune to the media or the things he was, as a person, programmed to regard. But right now, Dean could see the admiration there. 

“Sam.”

The younger Winchester ran a hand through his long locks then, shaking his head momentarily before turning his eyes back towards the older of the two. When he spoke, he still sounded to be in some level of disbelief, even if stunted. “Castiel Novak is the author of ‘Perhaps and Then’, which just so happens to have been one of the top grossing novels of its year. That guy on the porch is an exact picture of him. “

“What are you saying?” Dean asked, brows furrowed. And he knew the question was stupid. He knew he should have simply registered the information put before him so bluntly. But he didn’t want to. He could feel his anxiety start to tear away at his happiness far sooner than he could have expected. 

“I’m saying,” Sam stressed, continuing in that matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t think you’re messing around with just some writer, Dean. I think you just locked lips with a New York Times bestselling novelist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnnnn
> 
> yes, i realize this chapter had some really big cheesy gushy gooey moments. i, unfortunately, like those cliche bits a little bit too much, so if you found this horrifyingly obtuse, i'm just going to say it was totally not in my intentions to be so... sappy?
> 
> oh and writer!cas is super famous. because it just wouldn't be plot unless the plot was ridiculous. 
> 
> anyways, i'm still looking for a beta if anyone's willing to work with me. i don't know a whole lot of fic writers in the spn community seeing as i'm still relatively new it it (just caught up last month, yay). just, anyone even willing to confer ideas with would be totally cool too. 
> 
> i'm super friendly and i don't bite hard!
> 
> if you want to get at me, my email's on my profile. personal communication is so much easier anyways.
> 
> otherwise, much love, little duckies


	3. 'There's a World in Your Eyes, Cas'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Dean comes to terms with the fact that his newest admiration just so happens to be a famous novelist. How he deals, and more importantly, how it effects the new budding relationship they seem to have invested themselves into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so here's the next chapter! Yay. 
> 
> This would be the first chapter that my lovely beta Axephiel helped manage into submission. So if you see an exponential decrease in grammatical errors, she's your reason! 
> 
> Much thanks, of course, goes to her. Patient human being she is putting up with my nonsense so far.
> 
> Anyways, here's a little more for that 'profound bond'. Hope you like it!

Chapter 3: ‘There’s a world in your eyes, Cas’

At first, Dean was angry. Pissed that the other man had made it seem like he was barely worth the shots of Jack he’d let the other pay for. And maybe he deserved to be pissed. He felt lied to too, used. And it wasn’t in a way that made him justifiably mad, but only cumbersomely, as if weighted in the pit of his stomach just at the very edges so he couldn’t simply let himself be mad. 

It was something that had polluted his happiness, and made the rest of the car-ride home near unbearable. Even Sam, who had been so understanding and so colorful towards the subject, had lost some of that illustrious glow in his cheeks. He drove silently, the radio blaring some depressing folk nonsense that Dean didn’t even bother changing. 

It was the little things, Dean settled on. The marks in Castiel’s brow. The look about him that seemed so weathered and so worn thin, as if he’d seen too many hardships in his life. Too much pain and moroseness to be conceived as strength. It was the kind of thing Dean could relate with. Could understand on a more personal level as opposed to the obvious differences in character and personality. And it was what drew him out of the bar that night, into the warm embrace of a talentless, hopeless man. Not someone who could vouch for the good things in life. Not someone who tasted success. 

When they arrived back at the apartment, Dean slammed his door a little too harshly before taking a turn for the elevator. It seemed like the only likely action, seeing as he wasn’t about to start throwing another tantrum. It was the only way of physically voicing his displeasure without really having to say it. The younger Winchester followed behind closely, keeping a brisk pace as to catch up to his older brother’s death march. When he managed to match the pace, his hand pressed against the other’s shoulder warmly. 

“I’m sure he didn’t think it was important,” Sam said, and his voice was soft with concern. It was enough to slow the older Winchester ‘till his feet finally stilled. Even then, he could feel the confusion and embarrassment written across his face. “Just talk to him about it tomorrow night, okay? Maybe he was just waiting for a good time to tell you.”

Dean grumbled, but listened. Because Sam was right, and as much as he should have liked to storm up those stairs to the nearest phone, he had to keep his head straight about it. Maybe Cas was embarrassed by it. Maybe he didn’t want the ashy-haired man to think him some kind of celebrity freak. Normalcy was something neither of them seemed to excel in, after all. 

Even still, it was infuriating that he had to find out from someone else. 

When they got inside, Dean skipped the landline and went straight for Sam’s laptop which he pulled open with a bit too much vigor. It earned him a couple choice words from the taller man, who sat opposite him, watching with a certain amount of curiosity whilst the other began his search for info. And before he’d even finished typing out Castiel’s name, a flood of links pulled up on Google. All autobiographies and close-reading studies. Reviews and even fan-pages, which Dean scanned through haphazardly. It was like some great mystery coming to life across his retinas. 

“You weren’t kidding.”

“Find anything interesting?”

Dean nodded, though he wasn’t sure he could explain how he found the little facts fascinating. Like the older man’s age – which wasn’t too far off his own - and place of birth. His high school and how his first novel had been loosely based off of real life events. How Cas had three brothers and one sister, and that all four had made significant appearances throughout the short, 250 page book. He felt his mind sponge as much information as it could, staring with wide eyes and a settled pout that he didn’t know he’d been making. It was the kind of information he would have loved to hear from the older man himself. 

After a bit more searching, he settled on the image of a lounging, much younger Castiel that headed the Wiki page dedicated to his novel. He’d been sitting when the photo was taken, well-dressed though still unshaven and hair still messy, and though there weren’t as many lines along his eyes and lips, he looked just about as pensive as usual. There even so happened to be a cigarette in the curve between his forefinger and thumb and a small cup of some hot beverage balancing on the arm of the sofa-chair. 

“I’ve got a copy,” Sam said, and it broke Dean’s concentration. “of the book, if you want to read it. I can get it for you.”

The older Winchester looked up, and he could tell the interest was clear seeing as he hadn’t even managed a nod before the other was pushing himself up out of the kitchen chair. Sam only laughed briefly before heading down the hallway with long, cool strides which covered more ground than Dean could manage in twice as many steps. When he returned, he had a navy-blue, beat-up paperback cocooned under his arm which he tossed down in front of Dean landing with a light thump. 

“It’s good.” Sam said, sitting down again. When he looked up, his eyes flicked between the book and the ashy-haired man. “Really good.”

Dean placed his hand against the cover, marveling at the bent corners and the discolored pages. The image across the front was simple, but devastating. A rosary that coiled from a pooled spot along the bottom corner up along the spine before looping around the top of the back where the description was placed. Soft and stoic, and oddly provoking even to someone who found no solace in religious dogma. He pressed his index finger against the small crucifix, curious but fearful. Like there was a world full of secrets just waiting to be set loose. 

“I don’t know about this,” he said finally, retracting his hand. Even still, he couldn’t find himself able to look away from it. “This doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.”

“Read it.”

Dean looked up, catching the not so sparing glance of the man across him. And Sam did look fierce like that, all intense and to the point. It sometimes freaked him out when he did this but not because he hadn’t believed his brother incapable of resoluteness. Just that he never got over the fact that Sam kept growing older, and with it, so did he become the end all be all. The voice of reason. 

“Okay.”

Sam smiled then stood again, this time heading further into the small kitchenette. “I’ll make coffee.”

For the next few hours, Dean had settled himself down in the EZ-boy in the living-room, allotting himself a few hours of reading before he’d have to be off to the bar again for his nightshift. But as soon as he’d dug himself a comfortable spot with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and began the difficult procedure of inducting himself into the novel, he came to the conclusion that work was just not something on the table anymore.

Castiel wasn’t just a writer, or even a popular writer. He was a _brilliant_ writer. The kind who possessed his wording and metaphors and took each scene into the next with a poetic tone that would have put F. Scott Fitzgerald to shame. And it was glorious in that sense, always leaving trails of goose bumps along the young Winchester’s arms when he least expected to feel anything at all. Always causing some deep dark ache within the pit of his stomach. 

The protagonist was the epitome of Cas, bearing a name so similar he didn’t bother trying to imagine a different face or voice. He just let the light-eyed man take him through the depths of remorse and pain. There was a dark swallowing hole of rust in his heart that threatened to eat away at the entirety of him. Threatened the relationships around him, and watched as his glass towers shattered to bits around him, one at a time. 

Cassiel, aptly named to reflect the archangel of tears and solitude, runs through a set of course events, from the devastating familial obligation to the church which he observes but never takes part in, to his broken family which he lets fall apart around him. In the build up, he strains to gain ground in his life, to be something more than the fervent, boiling, brooding statue that he becomes, and it’s only when he speaks of his stance for the first time does the book turn chaotic. The fighting, for one, which the character tries desperately to stay out of but only ends up escalating, and the shame he bears when he can no longer hide the things about him he fears they’ll never accept. 

Dean, who had never read a book that hadn’t simply ended, felt more and more anxious after every page turn, because there was no resolution being made. Things just kept getting worse for Cass, and worse for the few characters he felt inclined to respect. Gabrie, who would have thrown himself under the bus if only he could have stopped the two eldest brothers from ripping each other apart. Anne, who left when she couldn’t take it anymore, leaving Cass behind. Salazar, though unrelated, did the same. It was as if no one could take the other’s faults and live with them. 

All except Cass, who observed. Who would sacrifice his happiness for family. Who never sought to leave until he was physically pushed away. 

Who could never be accepted for he loved another man. 

The only facet of the story that didn’t merely strike a chord within Dean was the subplot of Salazar, who Cassiel becomes enamored by. Whose presence brings him to say things and do things his character seems far likely never to digress into. And you begin to like the other man for being the one good thing in Cass’ life. You think he’s the subtext to the greater mystery of what life could be like happy. Until he leaves, like everything else. 

It was compelling, but dark, and ended even darker. The kind of abrupt ending that left you confused and reeling. It was a little over half past two in the morning before Dean had finished the last couple lines, dangling him over the precipice of what he could only assume was what it felt like to lose everything. And there was no brief description of the aftermath. No sobering words on growth and getting past it. It just got worse, got tired, and gave up. 

Dean had always had Sam. Always had something to keep him struggling on after his mother died, his father too. He didn’t dwell on loss like he dwelled on his own physical faults. He just accepted it because he had to, and stayed strong because someone needed him to. But Cassiel had no one but himself in the end. No family, no faith. Just the emptiness of where a spark should have been. 

The young Winchester went to bed that night thinking of Cas. Of what he’d just learned and feared was true. Of the anger he suddenly couldn’t imagine having even found the need to feel in the first place. It was so gut-wrenchingly clear now why the other hadn’t said a word about it. 

He dreamed of rosaries and broken dishes. 

\--

Dean woke up to the smell of pancakes and bacon. 

It must have been nine or ten, though he wasn’t quite sure exactly when and wasn’t quite willing to move towards his watch on the nightstand either. He just wanted to lay there and pretend he hadn’t woken yet. That there was still time before he’d have to face the day. That was, at least, until he was disrupted by a bellowing call from the kitchen.

“Dean! Food!”

He struggled to get up, thinking of only the pain in his joints which, subsequently, had been a surprisingly lasting feeling. He had hoped to be quite well-rested by this time. Even still, he removed himself from his used boxers, slid on a pair of fresh sweat pants and headed out into the kitchen where his brother was waiting, flying around the kitchen like some cooking fairy on cocaine (because I’m so good at metaphors, amiright?). 

Yes, Sam liked to think he was a pretty decent chef, though most of his food came out burnt and on the rare occasions it didn’t, it was almost fatally uncooked. Today, though, it appeared he managed well on his own. 

“I made some chocolate-chip waffles,” he said, flipping some of the already a little too well crisped strips of bacon. His hair was messy still and dangled in his eyes whilst he did so. “And coffee’s ready too if you’re interested.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The older Winchester attempted to maneuver around his overly active brother, pushing in so he could grab a cup from the top shelf where all the themed mugs sat, piled up and in a certain amount of disarray. It had been one of the few things he liked about that apartment, even though Sam still suggested getting a matching set. This, of course, always fell through. 

When he’d managed to grab one – a relic of a bad vacation to Dollywood – he ducked back around and headed for the table where a large stack of waffles sat piled up right in the middle on some fancy glass platter. There was a jug of orange juice out too, which he ignored. Instead, he grabbed the plate Sam had laid out for him, tossed a couple o’ pastries on it and doused them with copious amounts of maple syrup. Yes, Sam may not have been a fantastic chef but not having to cook breakfast was something he could get used to. 

“What’s the occasion, Maestro?”

Sam shrugged, dumping the overcooked bacon on a piece of paper towel before looking up. “I thought a good breakfast was in order.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Dean sighed, taking rather large bite of a waffle. It tasted better than he assumed it would, which was always a bonus. After he chewed thoroughly and swallowed, he began cutting off another piece. 

“It’s not everyday you make breakfast, especially not during cram week.”

Sam came over now, dropping the large plate of bacon down between them, before taking his seat opposite the masticating Winchester. He grabbed a few waffles of his own, not bothering with the syrup and eating them with his hands. 

“Food is good for the brain,” he said pleasantly, taking a rather large bite which took him little to no effort to swallow. The younger Winchester could probably have taken down the lot of them in mere minutes had it not been for Dean’s presence. “Can’t effectively cram if I can’t think like a normal human being.”

It was a decent excuse and one of which Dean knew would be pretty ineffective to pursue any further. Even still, he had a dark suspicion that it had nothing to do with the younger Winchester’s poor eating habits during studying binges.

After a few more bites and a couple sips of coffee, Dean spoke. “So I finished the book.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, it was, er, interesting.”

Sam nodded once, dropping the half devoured waffle back down on his plate, switching back over now to the cup of coffee he had left there from prior. After a couple of sobering sips, he looked up. “Did you get it?”

The question was a bit odd, and at first Dean felt a little miffed by it. He wasn’t a child incapable of thinking on his own. He could easily interpret a book if given the chance. It wasn’t until he felt the sarcastic comeback forming at his lips that he realized the connotation of the question. 

“The reason why the book didn’t end?” 

Sam nodded, taking another sip. When Dean shook his head, the other continued.

“The title,” he said. 

For a moment, Dean had to think about it. He hadn’t paid much attention to the thin, white, lower-cased script along the front of the book. It didn’t have an inner cover, which was something he found kind of odd for a moment, but the book itself hadn’t leant much obviousness to the comparison between. Perhaps and Then. A title that didn’t have an ending either, but there was something provoking when left so open-ended. And as this thought flitted across his mind, he clued in. 

“It’s not over,” Dean said, and he looked up with a wide, almost expounding look passing over his features. 

“Precisely.”

The book had finished on such a detrimentally low note that one could only assume Cassiel had simply given up. That there was nothing past it in his life. That this was the great decline he would never grow away from. But that wasn’t altogether true, because you couldn’t know. You couldn’t see that there might be good things in store for him, great things possibly. A budding career, a famous novel. A man who had lost everything and yet still retained a hope that there could be something more for him. 

Perhaps and Then. _Fucking hell_. 

“Look on the bright side,” Sam added, and there was that smirk he wore so well. “Maybe you’ll make a cameo in his next big piece.”

“Sammy, shut up.”

“Could you imagine?” he continued, gesturing now. He spoke in his mock announcer voice, which was a pretty terrible impersonation but Dean would never admit it. “ _Cassiel finds love again, this time with Dawn Windexter, the dirt broke bartender from the local sleazy bar._ It’ll be a hit.”

Dean made a face at his younger brother which, in turn, earned him another stabbing joke about his Baby being a two door Caprice. And, as much as he should have liked to play it off as just that, he couldn’t stop thinking of the ‘and then’. It stuck with him, carrying through his thoughts during the rest of breakfast. 

It wasn’t until he got in the shower later that morning that he had the chance to let it all sink in. And it did with the cascade of hot water, in a way that lingered. Yes, Dean hated the things in himself he couldn’t change, and if Cas were anything like him, he would feel the same. He wouldn’t have reached out in the way that he did, asking the other man to stay. Saying he could do right by him. These weren’t the actions of someone who had given up. 

Perhaps, and then what? What could any of this mean other than a messy start and a most likely messy end? He wasn’t Castiel’s Perhaps. He was more like a bandage with an extremely temporary adhesive. 

Yes, Cas was rising on his inner pedestal. He had already managed to climb more rungs than Dean had ever attempted himself, and was slowly but surely coming out untouchable. If he were looking for justification, he wouldn’t find it with the young Winchester. And this was beyond sobering. 

“Why the hell did you turn out to be a fucking celebrity, Cas?”

The rest of his afternoon had been spent tinkering on the Impala, blaring old 80’s music out the speakers and running through miles upon miles of things he should have left untouched. And there were questions. Big looming ideologies that needed reckoning, and he would ask them all, if given the chance. He would sit Cas down, explain himself in the only way he knew how, then try and find a meaning in it. If he could believe in something, then he could hold onto this. 

By the time seven rolled around, Dean felt just about ready to lose his mind. He had paced his room for a good fifteen minutes, tried on a whole array of plaid button-downs and band t-shirts, checked his teeth and hair in the mirror multiple times, and had even gone so far as to bring out the holed jeans he only ever slipped on when something big was going down. Like his first date with Lisa.

This, of course, he pretended not to think about, settling with an impossibly white v-neck t-shirt that made impressive the shape of his powerful arms and hid the more plush lower stomach that had grown a little flabby over the last couple years. Yes, Dean wasn’t always proud of his eating habits for this reason alone, especially when remembering those cool, jutting hipbones of the older man. A lower torso that should have been illegal. 

He slipped the necklace on that Sam had gotten him for his fourteenth birthday, a green jacket with a popped collar and then the black leather jacket he’d gotten as a Christmas present from Jess. All things considered, he felt pretty good about how he looked, even if only on the surface. It was reminiscent of his teenage years, all decked out like he belonged in a fifties’ gang. 

“Here we go.”

When Dean headed into the dining room, Sam had been sitting at the table with his laptop out again, books piled up and papers strewn across the surface of it as if he hadn’t cleaned up from the last time he’d studied. And Jess was back too, her own books laid out in a more precise, neat style. She was the first to look up, smiling in a way that was beyond charming. It always reconfirmed why his little brother seemed so happy. 

“You look good,” she noted, eyeing him briefly. “Date night?”

Dean shrugged, a bit embarrassed. This, of course, never seemed to matter to Sam, who took it upon himself to bring the other to a near panic attack. 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s got that dinner thing with Novak,” Sam said, gesturing towards his older brother without looking up from his computer. “That writer I was telling you about?”

“Oh, right! My bad.”

“Dude!” 

This brought Sam’s eyes up if only momentarily. He had a raised brow and a quirked upper lip. “What?”

“You told her?”

“Well, yeah.” He returned back to his computer, typing something down idly. “It’s Jess. She was going to find out anyways.”

Dean could feel his blood pressure spike. If Sam wasn’t a smart-ass, he might have been more willing to accept it seeing as he’d been right about her finding out eventually. Like everyone would find out, if this lasted longer than a week. But he didn’t want to think about this either. There was just too much he wished he could have avoided. Too much he would have liked to shove away and tell to piss off. But now wasn’t the time to linger on it. He had places to be. 

“We’re gonna talk about this later, right?” Dean warned, and he felt much inclined to be annoyed at that very moment. 

“Sure thing, Deano.”

Jess smiled sweetly, waving her hand twice. “Have a good time tonight. Let me know how it goes, okay?”

Sometimes he honestly wondered how his little brother landed someone as sweet as Jess. She put up with his sarcasm better than anyone he’d ever known. It was such a strange, but effective, symbiosis.

“’Course, Jess. See you guys later. Maybe.”

And with that he headed out the door, smiling when he heard his brother respond with a ‘TMI, dude!’. 

The drive in went by, as usual, too quickly. Dean had driven fast, which wasn’t altogether uncommon for him. He played Eye of the Tiger on repeat the entire way, blasting it to the point that it physically hurt, and sang along as loud as he could hoping it would cool his frayed and aching nerves. It helped but not as much as he should have liked it to, and left him damn near tired by the time he arrived, all shaky and out of breath. 

But this was it. The big moment. The epitome of all his wants and fears coming to life in a big mess of the first date. And he wanted it to go well even if he was afraid of what could occur because of it. Dean wanted Castiel to like him, too. 

Which was what brought him to open that car door. His legs felt weak, which was odd. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this nervous for a date. Then again, he’d never been on a date with a guy before so that ended up being pretty void. Even still, he could feel his heart rattling like an overheated radiator, beating about his chest so loudly he could hear it pound within his eardrums. And he swallowed hard, throat dry from the singing and from the nerves. 

_I can do this. I am Dean fucking Winchester. I can do this._

When he’d managed to get his legs moving enough to actually carry him up to that front door, he just about lost his mind. The nerves were one thing. The physical complaints were another. The perspiration that he feared was threatening to soak through the white shirt he was now regretting having adorned. The twitching in his legs which seemed only mildly controllable at best. Even his eyes felt different, as if they’d been lapsed into some kind of tunnel vision, and it made his head throb. 

He pressed his forehead against the cool metal of that front door, counting to ten, and then backwards. Trying to control his riled up emotions because, hell, he felt pretty sure this was not normal. Maybe the flu? He had stayed out in a cold Impala the night before so it couldn’t have been altogether out of the question. He felt nauseous enough as it was. 

Maybe he should have ducked out. Give Cas a call saying he couldn’t come out, at least until he had his nerves checked. This would have been the most advantageous of ideals. 

And yet, he didn’t move. And he knew he wasn’t going to. 

The door opened of its own accord a second time, though instead of jumping backwards as he did the first time it happened, he nearly tripped inside for having leant so heavily against it. And it was embarrassing, raising his hand to brace himself against the other man’s shoulder from pure instinct not to fall. Embarrassing to see the surprise on Cas’ face when he realized how close Dean had suddenly come into his perimeter, like a gale force wind just blowing into his front door. Yes, embarrassing. 

“Hello, Dean,” he said, and his eyes were wide in the way milk saucers were wide. He had raised his hand, too, bracing the other’s unattended shoulder, seeming awfully meek for someone who’d shoved him into the Impala, hard. Dean, for a moment, was so relieved at seeing the other man face-to-face and not through words on a page, just stood, trying not to smile like an idiot. And it took far too long for him to realize he’d just been lurching there, over the other man. 

Stepping back quickly, he could feel his face burn, which was good seeing as he’d felt cold and clammy only moments prior. It didn’t change the fact that he still felt his nerves fray exponentially at the thought of what just happened, but it was a push in the right direction. 

“Hey, I-uh.” he raised his hand, scratching the back of his head unceremoniously. “…was leaning against the door, er. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dean Winchester. Come in.”

With that, Cas raised his hand as if to let the other through, and he smiled accordingly as if programmed to such a sincerity. Just like Cassiel, which only seemed to make things worse. The character was reeling through his head now in a way he knew it shouldn’t, but the similarity was beyond simple likeliness. Dean couldn’t see a difference at all. 

When he past the other man, trying not to let his sudden sadness and confusion on the subject show, he came about the first level of the garage which was, surprisingly, still a garage. They were standing in the front lobby, right where the chairs should have been if there had been any chairs to speak of. And it was strange, looking at the halved brick wall that stood, stoically, between that lobby and the entirety of the actual working area. Dean could picture a large glass panel where there was nothing now, and a desk just before the empty doorway down along the right hand side where hinges were left without a physical block. 

The flooring looked to have once been tiled, black and white, though most of them were chipped and some even missing. When he peered over the wall, he could see the cement, and the draining pipes. The dugouts and a few rusty metal hangers and desks and things that used to be where the tools would have been laid out. He thought of his dad, then, because he couldn’t see a garage without thinking of him. 

“It makes me sad, too,” Cas said, which surprised the Winchester. He turned to catch that stoic expression across the other man’s face. He was staring out over the wall, elbows leaning against the leveled brick. “I didn’t have the heart to remodel. Maybe, one day, I’ll restore it.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile at this thought. Yeah, he could see Cas toiling away at it with steady hands and that same stoic expression. Could see the other taking all the time in the world to tinker with the lighting and replacing the shelves and cleaning up all the cobwebs and dirt and boarded windows. It was a strange but enticing thought process and one which he, on an inner level, hoped he might find occasion to help with down the line. 

Yes, he could see himself working alongside the man beside him, not talking, or even much looking at each other. But listening to rock and roll and drinking beer and working. He didn’t know how much he wanted it until it was there, glaringly bright. 

Dean wanted a future with Cas. And that was why his nerves were freaking the fuck out. 

“Come,” Cas said, as he was gesturing towards the rusty stairs which were well hidden along the left-hand side. Stairs of which, for a moment, Dean wasn’t quite sure he wanted to climb. They looked dangerous in a way that he wasn’t sure could support his weight. But Cas was climbing them now, sure-footed and feather light. Cas who could probably walk a single sting of tooth floss without it snapping. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he followed up, taking two steps at a time. 50% less chance he would plummet to his death, after all. 

When they finally made it up the stairs, Cas opened a secondary door, though this one was much better kept than the first. A wooden mass that was glossy and well polished even in the darkened front lobby. When he pushed it open, a flood of warm incandescent light and a flush of music hit him dead on. 

“Bryan Adams?” he said, blinded for a moment by the sudden intrusion of light and sound. He couldn’t hide the incredulousness from his voice. The song was one he knew though it wasn’t one he would have chosen on any occasion. “Seriously?”

“I like this song,” he stated, though he didn’t look offended by Dean’s jab. He merely shrugged, and started mouthing out the lyrics. _Everything I do, I do it for you_. 

When Cas had submerged himself into that upper floor, Dean followed behind, exponentially happier to finally be off those stairs. And though he still didn’t like Bryan Adams, he could appreciate the sight of Cas singing it. Could appreciate the flood of music throughout the large loft, which was a strange sight compared to the garage below and the front exterior of the building. 

Cas had turned it into a literal haven, walls covered in shelving which, in turn, was covered in books and records. They were painted a deep, almost mahogany tone, melting well with the polished, dark hardwood flooring and the scarlet patterned carpets. There were paintings too, hung in the spaces that weren’t shelved, and windows set with white California shutters. 

The layout was something Dean could appreciate. Unlike Sammy’s little apartment, it was wide open, small steps leading into the living room where a large leather couch and two small armchairs sat with warm accent pillows in front of an electric fireplace which was on, and a flat-screened TV which wasn’t. The kitchen could be seen in the far back, where a long marble counter was set on dark wood cabinets and a small white table sat before another set of windows, set higher and up a few steps like the front hall. 

There was something rather rustic about the feel of it. Warm and nook-like, for having been so open-ended. It looked as if it meant to have music playing throughout the immensity of it. Looked as if you could curl up with a good book and a cup of tea pretty much anywhere. And there were secret spots that he noticed on a second inspection. A little plush bench lodged into the middle shelving, for instance, with similar accents, or the perched, large yellow pillow leaning against the wooden trellis along the left hand side, right after those small stairs. There were piles of books, too, where there was no room in the shelves, placed precariously about. 

Yes, it was something of an oddity, but it was beautiful in its own simple way. 

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Dean said. He watched the other slip his tennis shoes off, bare feet smoothing across the well-maintained hardwood. 

And he looked good. Hell, better than good. He looked healthy, skin warm and flush, dressed in a dark blue sweater with a white collar popping out. And there was a certain softness to his shoulders, as if he didn’t feel the world so acutely when surrounded in his own little nest of wonders. He looked over his left shoulder, beckoning the other with that unimaginably sweet gesture, and it took all of Dean’s self control not to run himself into another fit. 

_Cas. Cas. Cas._

“I ordered take-out,” Cas said, and he was heading around towards the kitchen, not bothering the hike through the low living-room but, in turn, walking along the upper-side hall. He didn’t check to see if the other was following, which Dean, inevitably, would, after a difficult bout of trying to slip off his hiking boots without looking down. He simply kept his pace, swaying in a way that seemed odd but fluid, mouthing out those lyrics still. 

_Walk the wire for you, yeah I'd die for you._

Fearing that inevitable bomb building up in his lower stomach, Dean turned his eyes towards the long line of shelving along that first wall, hand reaching out to run along the cedar planking built right in. And it was intricately done. Obviously a large feat and one he couldn’t possibly have assumed was Cas’ handiwork alone. Even still, he couldn’t help but let himself wander through the endless titles. Books on philosophy, psychology. Classic literature, and poetry. Even a line of theological interpretations which he found somewhat amusing even if he shouldn’t have. 

He only stopped when his fingers reached the wall of records. Four massive rows filled with cardboard folders and thick masses of vinyl, perfectly preserved. 

“Impressive collection you got here.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Dean scanned through the most easily accessible row, flicking through each album with a renewed sense of curiosity. Cas had an array of tastes, from Creedence Clearwater Revival to Supertramp. Zeppelin to George Michael, and everything in between. If it hadn’t been for the sheer mass of his collection, Dean would have poked fun at the more inexplicable choices. And he was going to even still, had it not been for the one album that stood out, and for no reason in particular other than the fact that it seemed suddenly achingly right. He pulled it from its perch, letting the vinyl slip out against his fingers. 

“Foreigner?” he said, and he could feel his tone break for a moment. “You don’t catch me as an 80’s rock fan.”

“I can appreciate it,” he replied simply. 

“You have a record player?”

“Yeah, right over by the fireplace. Feel free to use it, if you’d like.”

Dean took his time crossing that small distance, keeping his eyes firmly placed forward. He wanted it to be a surprise, and for some reason, this made sense to him in ways certain things didn’t. Like why he hadn’t attempted to bring up the book thing, or the billions of questions he had brewing within the deep dark recesses of his mind. There were many things he could have, or should have done, but didn’t. And this, in its own right, was okay. 

_Careful, Dean. Gentle._

He replaced the record, lowering the tip down just in the right spot as to send out the final shrill notes of Cold as Ice, and it was a shock to his system for a moment. Hell, it even went so far as to break through some of those expounding nerves, which was something he needed. When the song melted into the next – I Want to Know What Love Is – he turned back towards Cas, smiling. 

“Dance with me.”

Cas, who had been opening containers of Chinese food, looked up with wide, petulant eyes, as if the thought gave him pain. Instead of moving from the spot he’d taken, he placed his hands against the countertop, lips pulling at the corners in that expression Dean both loved and hated at the same time. 

“I don’t dance.”

This was odd. Maybe not because Cas had outwardly admitted his inability to dance, but because he didn’t look horrified by the idea of it. Simply sad, making the reasons not something easily identifiable. The song was ringing in Dean’s eardrums now, and he was starting to regret having chosen to bother in the first place. 

“I’ll teach you,” he said, hand raised. “Dance with me.”

Cas shook his head, not bothering with a denial this time. Instead, he started on the Chinese again, making sure everything was open and readjusting the cutlery about for a second or third time. When he looked up and noticed Dean still staring, he quickly averted his eyes back down, brows furrowed. 

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

The young Winchester crossed the room then, and this time with a bit more determination. _No, this wasn’t how things were going to go. Cas didn’t need to lock himself up like this._ When he’d managed to get himself up the small staircase on his shaky legs, he let the small distance between them pass till he was mere inches away. 

“Dance with me,” he said, letting his left hand press against the woolen material of the other man’s sweater, right against the cool jut of his hip, drawing him to turn his way. And he did, inexplicably, though his eyes were turned towards the other man’s chest, not making eye-contact as was his usual style. His hands fell to his sides robotically, a soft breath passing through those pillow lips. “Just this one song.”

He drew his right hand, pressing it opposite the other, pulling the man in close, which, in turn, brought those eyes up a second time. And it was strange, watching the color return to his face which had seemed almost empty of it only a second prior. Strange but exciting in a way it had never been exciting before. Yes, Dean wasn’t much for labels, which was a big reason why he’d taken the transition so lightly. Just, he was starting to wonder how he’d ever simply believed he wasn’t. 

Then again, maybe it was just Cas. 

“I won’t bite,” he said, smiling. “Just sway with me. Humor me.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Cas pressed his hands against Dean’s chest, then up around his shoulders in a way that was coy and gentle. He swallowed unceremoniously, letting himself get just a half-step closer though the look on his face was of utter terror. Dean, in turn, let his arms circle the small waist of the other man, letting his arms relax. And it was lazy, the way they sort of swayed but not really. More like stood, Cas a bundle of nerves in his arms and Dean humming along to the chorus, mouthing out the words like Cas had only moments prior. 

“See, not so bad now is it?”

“Says you.”

This only earned a chuckle and that ever unavoidable smile. Dean watched him, then. Watched as his head came down against the young Winchester’s chest, resting there as a child might. And it was nice, in a way. Holding the other man like this in his arms like he had held many women. Like he’d held Lisa that night he left, and she’d cried on his shoulder for an hour or more, without music or swaying. He’d always regretted that moment, more than he’d ever really regretted anything. 

And he didn’t want to regret this. Not a week later, or maybe a month, when he decided he couldn’t do it anymore. 

“I know about the book.”

The words were out before he knew what he was saying. Like a punch, just as most of his feelings seemed to come out, one after another. Maybe it had been from that regret, pooling deeply within the coils of his stomach. Or for the mere fact that, if there was any way to throw the other for a loop, this was it. He could feel the body stiffen against him, arms slipping away in that same robotic fashion. 

“What?”

Dean watched the other man exit the circle of his own arms, prying away limbs one after the other, horror visible in his features. And he looked petrified by what had just been said, more than he had been about dancing. Or even when Dean had showed up on his doorstep, the groveling heap of mess that he was. It was only then that Dean had realized just how stupid his choice of words had been. 

“Sam,” he said, fists tightening spasmodically. He could feel the perspiration form for a second time. “He recognized you yesterday. Been a fan, I guess. Let me borrow his copy and everything.”

The color had left his face completely by this time, sobering as it was. Cas looked like he was about to throw up. 

“I-I was hoping,” he said, looking towards nothing in particular as long as it wasn’t at Dean. “that you wouldn’t-, that I-.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Dean said, and he was pressing his hands against Cas’ shoulders, horror-struck. “I-damn, Cas. I shouldn’t and I won’t talk about it if you don’t want to. We’ll just pretend it didn’t happen, or just, fuck. I don’t know.”

No, he didn’t regret being here with Cas. He didn’t even go so far as to regret his own self-reproach. All he felt was remorse for having ever picked up that damned book in the first place, and all because of one uncomfortable look in Cas’ features. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he pressed his forehead against the other man’s softly. This seemed to take the other off-guard for a moment, but he settled, shoulders slackening and eyes lowering to a half-lidded state. He let out a low, mournful sigh. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay.”

The song was just about over. And it was far from okay, but it was better. Just a little bit more containable, even if he knew it couldn’t be fixed, or changed. It was under control enough so that they didn’t have to move, or feel. And neither of them wanted to feel it anymore. 

When the broke apart, they didn’t speak of the book. Instead, Dean went to remove the record, replacing it back with that Bryan Adams one which he turned down to a gentle murmur in the background. Cas was getting glasses out of the cupboard, quiet and meek in ways he had never been before, not that Cas hadn’t proven himself quite stoic. Just, the silence was almost muffled in his throat, as if forced. And he looked shaken, because he most likely was. 

When they sat down together, they talked. 

“I came here a few years ago,” Cas said, and initially it had surprised the young Winchester who had been previously dishing himself out some Singapore noodles. He wanted to tell Cas to be still, but knew it was better not too. “To get away from everything. I wanted to start fresh in a place I had hoped people wouldn’t recognize me.”

“I see.”

Cas folded his hands against the countertop, twiddling his thumbs in a nervous fidget. But he seemed content, other than for that little motion. Okay enough to talk it out without really seeming to be affected by his own words. And this was something Dean could feel acutely. After all, he had never talked about himself objectively without giving up. 

He supposed that was why Cas could write a book about it. 

“Do you think me strange now?” he asked, and the question threw Dean off guard for a moment, floundering once again for an appropriate response. “Does this change anything? Because I should like things to be the same, even if they can’t be.”

It was like a knife to the chest. Maybe because, while he gave his little speech on how things weren’t different, and how he didn’t find Cas strange, there was a certain truth to the other man’s question. That things weren’t going to be the same from that point because they couldn’t be. He knew Cas in a way he hadn’t had the chance to understand about himself. He dug through layer upon layer of skin without physically prying it open. It had all be laid out in front of him, perfect and split wide and he couldn’t simply forget those things about Cas. No, even if he could, he wouldn’t have chosen too. 

Because, in spite of it, he was still beautiful, and not just physically. Cas was beautiful in a way no one had ever been beautiful before, and Dean had seen many faces to prove it. Cas was something completely different, and it might have been strange, but it only added to that beauty. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean said, and this he meant. “Unless you tell me to go. I don’t want to leave.”

Cas looked up then, and his eyes were wide and saucer-like, and his hands had stilled, palms flat against the surface of the countertop. After a moment, he smiled. “I’m glad.”

The rest of the meal went by in silence, and not unwanted. It gave Dean time to recollect his thoughts, his nerves. He could breathe a little bit more, and see a little more too, as he watched the other move about in that same lightness of touch. Cas was a finicky eater, always picking at things and eating small bits instead of regular bites, and his hands moved lightly, delicately. It was damn near artistic the way he ate. 

When they’d both eaten their fill, Dean having had at least three times the amount Cas had managed to get down in that time frame, they did the dishes, the older man washing and the younger drying. When this was done, Cas put on another record – this time some folk rock band that Dean didn’t much care for but said nothing of – and they both sat in the living-room, at first quite separated but eventually molding into each other.

Cas rested against him, feet up and eyes closed, humming away in that pleasant sort of silence. And for a moment, this was good. 

Hell, it was normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, still no smut. Sorry guys!
> 
> Again, a special thanks goes out to Axephiel. She did a real great job of fine-tuning which I am so, so glad for. 
> 
> Much love!


	4. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date continues, and in which Dean is feels trapped between and rock and a... er... hard place. He also sees something in Cas he never expected to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!
> 
> First, again, thanks to Axephiel for her perfection and amazingness and complete understanding for my lack of ability to can. 
> 
> Secondly, the newest chapter's got a few bumps and such. A lot of the character insecurity comes out throughout this part so if you're uncomfortable with sort of mental illness, this is the first taste of what these characters will be sort of coming across as. 
> 
> Anyways, here she is. Hope you like it!

Chapter 4: Ocean Eyes

They never did talk about it. 

It hadn’t been the most eventful night for Dean, not that he was hoping it would have turned out any differently. It was something akin to his first date with Lisa, which had been similar in many respects. A home-cooked meal and a movie. Her falling asleep against him on the couch, and in this way it had been nice. Peaceful even, though he had gone home that night feeling exponentially worse than when he’d shown up. 

Here with Cas, though, he felt calm, and tired. Maybe because he just didn’t have the energy to feel anything other than a certain amount of relief at things finally seeming to settle down just a little bit. No shock of sudden emotions. No unsurprising details coming to life. Dean was quite at odds with himself for the sheer fact that he didn’t know how this would work after the remainder of the initial shock disappeared and replaced itself out with a knowing mutuality experienced by both of them concerning their private affairs. 

Even still, he couldn’t help but want for it in ways he wanted many things from Cas. And just the little things seemed to make all the difference, what with the other curled into his side, fast asleep while the music drowned out then clicked to a stop. Just silence and the glowing synthetic burn of that fake fire. 

It was getting late. He knew he should wake him. 

Dean sat for what seemed like hours, not really wanting to move, and not feeling uncomfortable enough to think it was all that necessary. But staying the night would leave a sour connotation he didn’t particular like the idea of explaining to Sam. Even still, he could feel the smooth swell of the other’s chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, and all the hard contours of his face seemed to soften while he slept. He didn’t look bitter, or domineering. It was the face of someone who wouldn’t say the things he could clearly remember in the back of that Impala when they barely knew each other. And really, they didn’t know much of each other now, what for the book, and the all-knowing nature of that seemingly unnaturally perceptiveness of Cas. 

But they were still strangers, in most regards. Strangers with a mutual regard for each other. 

He wanted to talk, then. More than he’d ever really wanted to talk before. And just about needless things, like Cas’ favourite color, or food. If he preferred beer or scotch or if drinking was even something he did on more than rare occasions. If picking guys up at the local bar and fucking them in the back of their cars was something of a regular occurrence for him. 

This, he decided, wasn’t something he wanted to think about. It left a sour taste in his mouth, something akin to what jealousy could potentially feel like if and when it fermented. But Dean shouldn’t have been jealous yet. No, that would seem too clingy for someone who only wanted the best for the other man, right? Jealousy was just not something he could afford feeling. 

But sleep would have been good, and a bit of time away from Cas too, if he were being completely honest with himself. He had to think of other things again. Work and his car and just anything that took him away from this new, near unhealthy obsession he seemed to be harboring. 

He slid himself out from under the other man then, taking his time as not to wake him. And it was hard, prying the fingers from his shirt. Hard letting that limp head fall against the accent pillow he’d been sitting on only minutes prior. Cas grumbled but didn’t stir, only seeming to readjust in the absence of the other man, his knees pulling up so as to give an even more coddled look about him. And Dean wanted to kiss him like that, comfortable as he looked. But he wouldn’t, and he knew this. After all, he hadn’t had the chance of kissing Cas of his own accord, and it wasn’t about to happen now of all times. 

“Goodnight, Castiel,” he murmured instead, pressing his fingers briefly against the other man’s shoulder. He smiled almost sardonically before retracting and heading towards the door. 

That was until he caught sight of that shelf once again, filled to the brim with books upon books upon books, and for a moment he just stared at it mutedly, taking in the immensity of it. Marveling at the sheer size and mass. Dean couldn’t imagine reading even half as much as it offered, though he wasn’t unaccustomed to reading entirely. He sometimes found, on those quiet days when it was raining and time stretched on more than he should have liked it too, he would settle himself down with one of Sam’s old beaten novels and just let the familiar cascade of words roll over him. It didn’t matter if the plot was staunched out, or overly dramatic. He read for the feeling. 

But this was rare, and the amount of books spread out before him was a daunting sight. He couldn’t assume a single person could possibly read half as much as this implied Cas could. 

Raising his hand, he skimmed his fingers along the spines of some of the more fictitious choices. A whole two shelves dedicated to Murakami and Heller. Orwell and Bradbury. Even some choices he was surprised to see, like Tolkien and Salinger. It was an impressive collection and one he got lost in without having to pull a single book from the shelf. 

“You won’t find it.”

Surprised, and still slightly disoriented, Dean wheeled himself around just in time to catch the older man pulling himself up slowly, wiping the sleep from his eyes and sounding as rough and haggard as ever. When he’d managed to stagger up into a standing position, his eyes came up to meet the young Winchester’s, expression solemn. 

“I don’t keep a copy,” he continued. “You won’t find one in there.”

Dean, who had been stunned into silence for that brief moment, fidgeted nervously, looking towards the door momentarily before retracting back towards the other man. And he felt caught, red-handed. His smooth getaway was pretty much void. “I-er, I was just about to, uh…”

“Go home?” Cas asked. He didn’t seem surprised by this, nor hurt. He just shrugged, taking his seat again so he was no longer facing the young Winchester. “Don’t let me stop you.”

This felt like a trap. 

“You were asleep,” Dean continued, shuffling from one foot to the other. And he was staring to regret having ever stopped long enough to let this happen. He hated saying goodnight, maybe more than he’d ever hated saying goodbye. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I understand, Dean. No need to explain anything to me.”

Again, too stoic. Too out of place. Cas might have been a quiet sort of fellow, but he wasn’t inhuman, and in this sense, there was a certain childishness to his tone. Something he wasn’t unaccustomed to seeing, like when Sam did on those rare few occasions he didn’t get his way. But Sam was an odd case, and Dean wasn’t quite sure if this was how he was supposed to treat this situation. 

“I can stay,” he said finally, scratching the back of his head. “If you want. I know it’s late and all but, uh, I can stay a bit longer.”

There was a silence then as if the other man was computing this information. He didn’t move much during that time, though it did leave Dean with an aching want to know what his face read. Being faced with the back of the other man’s head was not something that brought him any more solace than anything else had that night. 

Finally, and with a certain amount of relief to the young Winchester, Cas’ shoulders slumped down a notch. 

“I-I would appreciate it very much, if you would.”

Dean, who had been surprised by the small crack in the other man’s voice, nodded, though he knew the other couldn’t see it, and walked back over, taking the spot he’d perched in for that long duration of time. His legs were sore and his back hurt from having been seated for so long, but he ignored the aches and pains. Instead, he let his arm slip around the thin waist of the other man, silent as ever. 

“Then I will.”

Cas rested his head against the other man’s shoulder, sighing contently. He seemed to like being close, which Dean hadn’t much objected to. That inexplicable need to touch, to be touched, like Cassiel who was stone for years before he’d ever felt a warm hand, and would have stayed cold if it meant things could have been better for his family. But they wouldn’t have been even if he had remained the same always. Now, Dean could only assume, Castiel would search for affection in everyway he could. 

It was a subtle reminder of how screwed up this whole thing was. But it was better screwed up, he thought. Because, at least, that way they could relate. 

“Tell me a story,” Cas said, and his eyes were shut again though the young Winchester suspected not because he wanted to sleep. “about you. I want to hear about you.”

“I’m not that special.”

There was a knowing smile pulling at the corners of Cas’ perfect mouth. He only snuggled in closer, hand pressing against the Dean’s thigh, head cocked into his neck so that the younger man could feel the pillow lips against his jugular. And it was a sharp sort of feeling, like having been awoken again from a deep sleep to the sound of a good song. 

“I think we both know that’s not true, Dean Winchester.”

He could feel that little catch in his throat when he tried to speak, warmth spreading up from the pit of his stomach pleasantly. And it was enough to make the corners of his own lips pull up ever so slightly in that half-smirk he hadn’t worn in quite some time. “Something tells me you’re trying to distract me.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm.”

“Is it working?” 

“Don’t let me stop you.”

There was a deep chuckle seeming to reverberate behind the other man’s chest. And Dean liked the feel of it against him. The feel of the warm candescence and the quiet loft but for the buzzing of the electric heater in that fireplace. And he thought, this must be what it’s like to be happy. 

Cas left a chaste kiss against that same spot his mouth had been positioned against, moving up ever so slowly, and it was a torment in the way it hadn’t been a torment before. Maybe because it was just enough of a press to be stirring. How many times had he done the same? Probably countless down the long line of women he’d ever been with, and it had usually worked to his advantage; displaying that predatory dominance whilst still retaining a certain measure of affection so as not to spook or scare away. More to pull in coyly, sweetly. And sure as hell, Cas was good at it. 

He moved slowly now, without that urgency that made their first moment together so poignant. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” he said, nuzzling Dean’s neck with his nose when his lips had parted from skin. He was pushing the young Winchester back against the arm of the couch, crowding him into submission. And it was an easy feat, steering the boat in whichever direction, because control was something he seemed to have in spades. 

And it seemed only natural then, fluid. The way every touch was slow and tempered, Cas’ lithe body moving to take charge, hovering and straddling and making it oh so clear who held the reins. And when his mouth pressed against Dean’s, soft but determined, the other let his hands unclench, smoothing out along the soft leather with a laziness that reminded him of summer evenings. Yes, he could imagine just this, lax limbs and lazy kisses under a sheath of stars. 

Cas didn’t talk much, or attempt to convey anything really, other than those light caresses and easy movements, taking his time in ways that would have driven the young Winchester crazy had it not been for the strange atmosphere they let dwell upon them. A sort of fog that muted the vigor of previous lust and left a candid palate of confusion and excitement and what Dean could only fear was the start of something he shouldn’t have let happen. Any regard past his current amount was bad news, and yet he wanted to regard the feeling of being torn apart, bit by bit. He wanted to feel what it would be like to lose himself completely to someone else but not for want of any other reason than to simply lose it. 

Not this. Not trust. 

Who was he kidding. He’d never have let anyone tear him apart like this. 

When the older man’s lips parted from Dean’s, he could feel his own need grow, wanting that feeling again. Wanting it not to stop for any duration of time. After all, he may have only assumed Cas felt the need for affection from his own inner spiral of want. His own, undeniable craving for intimacy that he’d pushed away so vehemently he’d forgotten how much he needed it. If a press of lips could make him feel something more than self-reproach, he would’ve kissed someone like this a long time ago. 

But, in some respects, he knew it wouldn’t have made a difference. They weren’t Cas. 

“Where the hell did you come from,” Dean said, and it had the same effect as many of the things he’d said during their last experiment. That flushed, foolhardy feeling of saying too much and knowing it still wasn’t the half of it. _Where have you been all my life?_.

“San Diego.”

“I wasn’t being literal.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Another press. Another cool draw from his lips like he’d been that perched cigarette, flaring up with each deep drag. Figures, seeing as he felt like he’d been sucked dry by that very orifice, only to give more with each breath. 

So this was it. He could feel the other man’s hand under his shirt, smoothing across his stomach and stirring those unwanted stabs of arousal. This was it; those steely hips moving about again in long drawn rotations, stimulating and yet keeping at bay the sudden newfound frustration. This was it, and he’d known he’d be faced with it sooner or later, though he hoped much, much later when he knew he would’ve been able to not feel so overwhelmed by it. Cas wasn’t trying to fuck him this time. No, he was trying to make love. 

_Goddamn it, Cas._

Dean panicked. At first, he pulled his lips away sharply, nerve-endings alight with the anxiety that bubbled up from the lower confines of his stomach. And he’d never felt this betrayed by his own sense of self. Betrayed by his own understanding of what he wanted. Hell, he went into this knowing he had no clue what he could have wanted from Cas, but he hadn’t expected this of all things, and he was sure it wasn’t what the other was looking for. Yet here they were, a tangle of limbs, making out on the sofa like teenagers, two steps away from attempting to form yet another inner tie. Another reason why he couldn’t just leave. 

Cas looked worried, surprised by the sudden break in pace, and he brought up those wide ocean eyes, hand unhinging itself from underneath Dean’s ribcage where it had rested before, pressing now against that spot on his neck. His thumb massaged circles again, carefully. “Are you okay?”

“I-fuck, I don’t know.”

Cas pressed his brow against Dean’s in that same familiar way, and for a moment, it was a breath of relief to the situation that seemed to be getting itself so out of hand. The young Winchester even went so far as to let his eyelids drop for a moment, savoring this feeling at least, till he realized the reasons behind it and once again felt the clammy hands of panic wiring themselves around his complacency. He moved his head to the side, feeling his heart battering unexpectedly fast. 

“Shit,” he said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fucking Christ.”

Cas sat back against his heels, hands retracted with a near unreadable expression passing over his sullen features. Nearly, except for the curious amount of what appeared to be hurt in those wide blue orbs. Dean was stunned into further silence. 

“What is it you want, Dean?”

He blanched, mouth moving but no words seeming to come out. Truth be told, there were many excuses he could have given. And maybe this was the time to make that inevitable excuse and get out while he still could. It was too good being underneath the other man. Too good simply letting someone else take control even just for a second. And all the while, only one answer seemed to be cycling through his head. 

_You._

He elected a different option. 

Dean lurched forward, hands grasping at Cas’ neck, his face, pulling him down so their lips could meet with a fervency that would have knocked Dean flat on his head had the roles been reversed. And it was rushed, and hot, and all kinds of everything he’d felt that night in the Impala just washing about in a way that was mind numbing but also senselessly good. No attachment. Just sex. 

And it seemed to work, at least for the first few minutes. Cas, who had been taken off guard, didn’t respond immediately, but soon fell into rhythm, his hands pulling at Dean’s shirt for the second time, tongue lapping at his upper lip as if to seek entrance. And it was a good kind of pressure, whereas the frustration began that steady build-up. The glow of arousal that would get this done and over with as quick as was necessary to keep it merely casual. Dean tried to help shuck the other man’s sweater, fast and fumbling in between unimaginable hot mouth action, which Cas had to, inevitably, break to finish the job. Which was when things turned sour for the second time that night. 

The older man lifted his shirt up and over his head gracefully, taking both the sweater, and the button up off in that same fluid motion. And it was beautiful, watching him do it in full light. Being able to see the contours of his perfect hips and his smooth lower stomach that wasn’t so much muscled as it was simply slender, probably from a healthy diet, or more cardio based exercising. In any case, he was a piece of art, and in ways the young Winchester had never believed anyone could be. 

He let his hands wander up towards those smooth perfect hips, just resting there against the tinted skin. Cas wasn’t pale by any means, but a shade darker, with bronzed dips and shadows, not much marking the beautiful expanse of that barely there stomach other than a light dusting of chocolate brown hair leading down past the hem of his low-rise jeans. It made Dean want to run his fingers along it, feel the tensing as he did so. The sinews rising and falling with each breath. 

Sure enough, Cas seemed to stare down at him with that all-knowing look about those cold features. When he leant down again, he rested his elbows against the arm of the couch, lips seeking Dean’s once more in a soft, pleasant sort of way. Just a brush of skin here and a little pressure there, as if inviting the other to touch him. To make the next move. The coy son of a bitch. 

“Take your time, Winchester,” he murmured against Dean’s lips, those blue eyes half-lidded but still so intense it left the other struggling for cohesiveness. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Those words were liquid kryptonite. 

He let his hands run along the flesh of the other man’s stomach slowly. Agonizingly, because that was the best way to test those waters. And it was good, drawing out a low sigh from the older man who hovered over him, eyes closed. Good, as he drew his nails up along each rib ever so gently, before sweeping back along the sternum. When he reached the perfect jut of his collarbone, he let his fingers wander along the hollow there, mouth touching against the stubble on Cas’ neck. Slow, steady. He was drawing it out on his own instead, playing by Cas’ rules. Exploring untouched land without force, but a steady reassurance. 

When his arms came up to wrap around the other man’s neck, Cas’ eyes peeled open, lips pulling at the corners. When he spoke, he sounded sleepy. “Couch or bed?”

“Bed.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

When they moved – Cas first by unfolding his legs from the near death hold they had on Dean’s thighs – the older man grabbed the young Winchester’s hand, leading him towards the near hidden hallway on the far right-hand side of the loft. There was no heavy clinging, wall crashing flings of passion. No tripping and stumbling across that hallway whilst attempted to gain more purchase of each other’s bodies. Just a lingering touch and, once or twice, a brief stall so as the one could press a chaste kiss against the other’s lips. This should have been a warning sign, but Dean wasn’t interested in paying attention to what was right or wrong anymore. What should have happened. He just wanted to climb into bed and let the other take control once more. 

When they entered the bedroom, Cas made no move towards the light switch. Instead, he coaxed the other man to follow him into the semi-darkness but for the glow that came in from that abandoned hall, grinning in a way that made his features warmer somehow. Maybe for his own want of that expression. For any expression, as it was so rare to catch a glimpse of that smile of his. Dean followed mutedly, letting the other push his jackets off in a way that was deliberately slow. 

Dean could feel his heart patter again, uncomfortably. And he knew what was to come. He could feel it within every fiber, and it threatened to knock his knees right out from underneath him. When he sucked in a shaky breath, the other man smoothed his hands up against his chest, taking steady movements in that gentle manner of not spooking him away. And it felt as if he were trying to keep Dean from leaving. Always placing just enough pressure as to feel comfortable and yet still remaining nonintrusive. He really was good at knowing the warning signs. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated, pressing his lips against Dean’s neck. And it was a mess of disjointed bursts within his very nerves. “I promise.”

The next to go was his shirt, which came off smoothly thanks to the skilled hands of the other man. When this had been accomplished, Cas slid down to help unbutton his jeans, putting on a show that was much more indulgent than anything else. He watched, letting his fists clench and unclench as the older man helped peel off those holey jeans, leaving that pair of Calvin Klein’s perfectly intact. And there was a certain level of disappointment there he was unwilling to admit, watching the other pull himself back up slowly, slipping his own jeans down rather mechanically without seeking help from the young Winchester. He would have very much liked to have had a second go at letting that pretty mouth have at him. 

Cas pulled himself into the massive bed then, slipping his lithe body under the thick comforter before beckoning the other over with a quick gesture. After he’d done this, he’d managed to get his own boxer’s off, which Dean wouldn’t have caught other than for the slight pile of fabric now lying along the bedside. 

_Fuck._

Dean slipped his own undergarments off, trying not to think about the flood of self-consciousness that threatened to bring on that heavy flush in his cheeks. When he crawled up next to the other man, lying himself down under the comforter just a few inches away, it became glaring the obvious how naked they both were, and how natural that seemed. More natural than the sloppy bed rattling he had become so used to in his youth. And Dean wasn’t a terrible lay. Just, Cas made this something else. Something _more_. 

And maybe he wanted that, even if he couldn’t believe he deserved it. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cas said, and he was moving now, reaching into to top drawer of his beside table. When he turned back, facing the other man, there was a small tube of KY jelly balancing in the smooth swells of his fingertips. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

And there was that sudden burst of panic, making it near impossible for the other man to settle his nerves at the sight of it. No, the sudden implication of what was about to transpire left his body a mess of adrenaline and fear keeping his limbs impossibly straight. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Not like this, when he wasn’t sure why he was evening doing this, or how he could be expected to handle this when it was done and over with. No, no, no. 

“Wait! Cas, you-I, just,” he was shuffling now feeling those nerve endings alight. And it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Maybe because he was good at hiding his fears, and fighting them. Because his fears were always about what he could potentially lose. And what could he lose here but an ounce of self-respect he barely had to begin with? It was a whole new level of fear. “Are you-, I-.”

“Not tonight,” he cooed, taking his time as he moved up and over the other man, hovering in that way he seemed to like doing. He uncapped the lid, squeezing a hefty glob of lube onto the palm of his hand. “Not yet.”

He felt his body melt when the hand slipped between them, grasping at his swollen member. It was such a sudden relief that he could feel his voice slipping out in a nonsensical manner at the gentle touch. The feeling of a warm hand gliding across, and how much better it felt now that he was slick and how good Cas was with those fingers, applying just enough pressure to make it good, but not enough to make it end. 

It was sweet, and tempered. Not a quick stuttered wank that left him reeling but a slow, measured moment that seemed just about right. And maybe it wasn’t as exhilarating as the first night had been, letting Cas climb on for the ride. There was no immediate build-up. No toying or teasing. Nothing about this spoke of that firsthand lust that had been so intoxicating in the moment. 

But it was good, in that sense. Better, maybe. 

Dean knew he was getting close. He’d been riding the waves since the other had first began those enticing little hip rotations back out on the couch, and it wasn’t going to be much longer before he simply couldn’t hold back. He grasped Cas’ biceps warningly, feeling his breath hitch. And he was moaning, deeply, dryly. Just a few more steady pumps. 

“It’s okay,” Cas said. He could feel the press of the other man’s cock against his own now. Could feel the slick fingers run them both together, with a little more to the pace. “I don’t mind. Just let go.”

His hips stuttered, body aching for release. But he didn’t want to come yet. Not like this. Not until he knew Cas was dangling on the precipice too. He reached his hands up, one cupping behind the other man’s neck, the other his jaw, leading him down so their foreheads could press ever so slightly. Just enough to make it intimate. Just to get that glow again, and he wanted it. Desperately. 

It seemed to have a similar effect on the other man, whose lips had pulled taut and whose body moved against him in short staccato bursts. More thrust, softer grip. He was rutting up against him with their heads drawn together and Dean’s hands holding him still. 

“Please don’t go,” Cas whimpered, and his voice was husky and drawn too tight. A plea, a bargain. He looked utterly frightened for the first time. “Just stay right here, with me. Don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, and his movements were becoming sporadic now, like this was all he needed to hear. And it was strange hearing them, because Cas never made it seem like he needed him. He had put up such a front like he’d been the one who could make things right by Dean, but now he was begging, and he was vulnerable and he was a whole array of things Dean couldn’t have him be. But he was agreeing to every demand because it was Cas, and he didn’t want to leave. 

“Stay with me, Cas,” he said, and he was so close. So damn close. “Look at me.”

The other did as was asked, fear in those eyes for what he’d done sober. For what he’d admitted in the throws of passion. Fear because they’d both made similar mistakes and they were both riding out the pinnacle of what those mistakes could mean. 

But it was beautiful nonetheless. 

“I’m right here. I’m staying right here.”

Cas came first, in a low, muted groan, chest heaving but features melting into a soft complacency which slowly melted into that stoic expression. He helped Dean the rest of the way, too, which hadn’t been more than a few short seconds after he had, a little louder and drawn out, mixing bodily fluids into the palm of his perfect hand. When he rolled off, he’d grabbed at a tissue from the nightstand which he wiped the final remnants on it, before tossing into the waste basket. 

Dean watched him do this, chest heaving still, and eyes half-lidded. He didn’t know what just happened, or how it ended up occurring in the way that it did, just that he was satiated, and content, and ready for the warm comfort of the other body against him whilst he let himself drift into sleep. That was, at least, before the other man curled under the covers, a good distance away with his back turned. 

And, at first, it seemed oddly cold to the young Winchester who was still coming down from the sudden high of post orgasm. Cold because he’d just witnessed something so profound he couldn’t place it into words and yet he couldn’t bask in it now. Couldn’t enjoy the feeling for the short amount of time his mind would let him. He wanted to enjoy it more than anything so he could remember just what he felt. So that, when the morning came, he would have something to remember. 

He didn’t want to forget the promise he’d made. Because he’d meant it. It felt _real_ like nothing had ever really felt before. 

And yet, there was Cas, a balled figure that seemed so far away. He wanted to reach out, to grasp on. To pull the slender body against him again. To feel the steady pulse under his skin. It hurt more than he’d ever thought possible when he realized he couldn’t. 

Dean rolled over on his side, staring at the back of Cas’ neck, and he could feel the breath of a sigh on his lips. Yes, things seemed so hopeful when the first barrier started to crack apart, but all good things must end. If they were meant to prove anything, it would be this alone. 

After a moment, he let a small, weak smile cross his features. Yeah, good things were meant to end, but that’s why they were so good.

“Goodnight, Cas.”

It was near simultaneous with those words that the other’s shoulders began to shake. At first, it was so light the other hadn’t thought much of it, like that first shiver on a cool winter morning. But soon enough it started escalating, heavy breathing pairing itself with confused dry sobbing, and all masked behind a turned back and a distance that should never have been there in the first place. It was so affronting and so quick the young Winchester nearly pulled his bicep trying to push himself up fast enough. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s okay,” he was saying before he even knew what he was trying to communicate, shuffling closer so he could press his hand against the older man’s shoulder. His voice was low, and jagged with worry. “Come on, Cas. Look at me. I’m right here, okay?”

The other man didn’t turn. He just seemed to melt into the darkness further, face shadowed and body shaking like a leaf. It was disconcerting to say the least, not sure why or how or when this had taken place. Just that he was upset and Dean had no idea how to make it better for him. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he said, and he curled himself up as close as he could get. He laid himself back down so he could wrap his arm around the other man, which he had feared would be too forward. 

Surprisingly, though, the other man had seemed to calm down considerably when this had been done, only stuttered half-movements passing by every few seconds. Even his breathing softened, so much so that his muscles appeared to visibly relax, hand reaching up where the cool bed of fingers could barely skim the top of Dean’s. To the young Winchester, it had been strange being the source of comfort, though he had often been the need for it. He wondered which he was now. 

“I’m staying right here,” he murmured against the other man’s neck. “I’m gonna be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

\--

Cas was still there when he woke up. 

He didn’t know how early it was, or if it would have been better to try and squeeze a few more hours of sleep in. Or even if he was all that comfortable. Just that he was awake, and sprawled out across half the expanse of a bed he hadn’t realized was half as massive as it was until then. 

The change in scenery from the first night and then had been one he couldn’t help but feel the need to savor. Maybe because he liked the way Cas slept, curled into his side, tucked under his loose arm. It was an odd angle for Dean’s shoulder, but this he could live with if it meant the older man felt comfortable. It was too sweet seeing that perfect hand balled against his bare chest. And the way Cas’ nose would crinkle at certain times, as if his dreams were far too engaging. He slept like a child, clinging close as if for dear life. 

The urge to kiss his nose came back. To kiss the swell of his forehead, each smooth paneled cheekbone in a quick succession. Cas was glorious in the way all beautiful things were glorious. 

This, of course, seemed shadowed now in a way he hadn’t let it get before. Because he hadn’t seen the struggle so much as the blatancy of looks and the temper of a saint. Cas was so good at holding himself up that when he’d watched it all crumble down for just those few brief moments, he hadn’t been able to compute it. To let it make sense. Sure the blue-eyed man had issues of his own. They were in full view, written in fully scripted, excellent prose. He was bearing his whole heart on a sleeve that was far too filled with everything else that it shouldn’t have been a surprise that when it came down to it, he was just as fucked. 

But to physically see the pain outright, well. That was just something he’d never thought possible till then. 

After a moment of silent pondering, he decided not to fight that initial urge, even if just for the fact that he wanted to be something good in Cas’ life, just for a moment. Just until he could slip out that front door. If he needed to pretend anything, it was that he could have been good enough. After a moment’s hesitation, Dean pushed himself a little lower, unhinging his shoulder from that painful position it had been in, before coming down to press a soft peck against the corner of the other man’s mouth. Just softly enough that it might not have woken him had Cas not been an alarmingly light sleeper in that regard. 

He was greeted with those wide ocean eyes. 

“Good morning, Dean,” said that gravelly, sleep filled voice. It was warm, though. And pleasant. 

“Good morning, sunshine.”

There was a brief pause, and it was good. Dean, who had felt obliged constantly to try and retain eye-contact with the other man, didn’t feel forced about this new moment. He just let himself search, aimlessly, whilst the other did the same. He was certain the other would be fearful, in some regards, of what he found. After all, the depths of his own disaster were a welcome distraction to the one in the other man’s rusted heart. Just, two wrongs don’t make a right, and piling messes upon messes and luggage upon luggage was just not something he knew would be good for either or them. And Cas had to know this, in some way. 

“Has anyone ever told you, you have an odd focus about your eyes?” he said finally, twisting a small smile across his lips. It was not good, relaying pain the way they seemed to find the necessity of doing. He needed to break it up. 

Cas only laughed, rolling over on his back, creating just a little bit of distance between them. And in was a relief, even if he hadn’t wanted it to be. “It’s not very nice bringing up someone’s drunken speech, Dean Winchester.”

“And it might seem a little too formal calling someone by their full name after sex, Castiel Novak.”

This earned him a slight, halfhearted shove, which he let go without reciprocating. Instead, he just smiled, turning his eyes up towards the ceiling instead when he’d let himself fall back down against the sheets. It was cool in that room, leaving his upper body tingly from lack of the other’s body heat against him. It made him want to pull the sheets up to his chin and just stay that way as long as he could. 

“I haven’t finished fixing up the central heating,” Cas said after a moment, as if reading his thoughts. He shuffled over somewhat so that his shoulder skimmed the other man’s, as if that little touch could produce some kind of warmth. Surprisingly, in an absurd way, it did. “I was hoping to get to work on it over the summer, but it seems I might not get the chance.”

This was an odd statement. It drew the other’s attention from the cool white of the ceiling back towards the stoic face of the older man. “How come?”

“New York,” he said, as if this alone was an answer, and it a certain way it was. 

Another moment passed, Dean not quite sure if and how he was supposed to react to such a cool, composed answer. He didn’t know if it was supposed to make him feel anything, seeing as he didn’t. Just a blankness there, like the answer had been. Like a closing of a chapter that was better left shut. Maybe he should have been relieved. 

“When do you go?”

Cas let of a steady sigh, and it was oddly provoking hearing the tone in his voice. He didn’t like it. He couldn’t find his body settling because of it. 

“Not for awhile. Early June, maybe sooner, if Balth has his way of it.”

Dean nodded, letting his hands clench spasmodically, before continuing. “New York, eh? Sounds pretty high-key. This Balth guy your boyfriend or something?”

“My agent.”

“Ah.”

Another pause. Regretfully, Dean could feel his temper rising, and for no real reason other than to raise. He wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose but refrained from doing so. Instead, he just stared back up at the ceiling, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“I hope you have a good time, then,” he said. And there was that tone. He hadn’t meant to use it. “In New York, that is.”

“Why don’t you wish me that a little closer to the date?”

“I didn’t know I was expected to be around that long.”

He could feel the shoulder tense against him, and the sudden choice of words didn’t seem so smart anymore. He turned his eyes ever so slightly just to catch a little glimpse of what he’d done to that stoic face. Nothing much had changed, except the color, which had drained to the point of ghostly white. He could feel the knots building up in his stomach for this reason alone, though there was a certain amount warranted for the mistakes he’d inevitably made. 

“You can go,” Cas said. And it was cold, bitter even. “If you want. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Dean turned so he could fully face him which brought those cool ocean eyes back towards him, a torrent of stormy grey instead of that bright, sunny azure he was used to seeing in more candescent lighting. It was unsettling, to the point he could feel the panic start setting it. 

“I don’t want to go,” he said, back-peddling. He could feel those pesky nerves light up like fireworks. “Unless, well- unless you want me too, that is.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then I won’t.”

After a few more deep breaths, Dean felt his nerves relax. He didn’t know why he had let himself get so bent out of shape over something that wasn’t going to happen for another month and a bit. Hell, when Sam had left on for his summer camps as a kid, Dean hadn’t reacted so affronted towards the subject, and yet here he was, placed in a circumstance that really had nothing to do with him, and he couldn’t not let himself get carried away. Why, he didn’t understand. 

“Balthazar is a good friend of mine,” Cas said finally, and he sounded somber. Maybe even somewhat reproachful. “The name must sound familiar to you, am I correct?”

Balthazar. Yes, in a way it did sound familiar, though he couldn’t quite recall what had prompted the familiarity. After all, it wasn’t exactly a popular name, though the sound was somewhat similar to a few key syllables he held in his head. And if he hadn’t been so zinged over what had just happened, he might have found occasion to understand why. 

After a few more seconds of silent pondering, it hit full force. 

“Salazar,” Dean said, and it felt like a rock had been lodged in his esophagus. 

Another nod. Another cold response to information Dean didn’t want to know. And maybe that’s why he was getting so bent out of shape. Because he wanted to sit and joke and hold the other close. He didn’t want a list of things he should have been worried about. A fractioned sentencing of all the insecurities he’d let himself build in those few hours. Those days to which he’d managed a steady compilation of all things pertaining Cas. He felt slack-jawed and weak-kneed. 

“I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” Dean continued. But this time, not angrily. Just listless, and indifferent. 

“He’s not.”

“He was.”

“But he’s not anymore.”

“And that makes a difference how?” he wanted to roll over and away, but refrained. Those eyes were like suction cups, tearing away at those few sections of himself he could handle on his own. He shouldn’t have let this get as far as it had. Cas was being honest and he was letting it get the best of him. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I get that, okay? So just stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he replied simply, and it was calm. Surprisingly tender compared to the prior tone he’d taken. “I want you to know these things about me. Because I want to know these things about you.”

Another bullet. Another reminder that he wasn’t getting out of this alive. 

“Why?” the question was on his lips before he had the chance to stop it. “What did I do to pique your ‘special interest’, huh? What makes me so special-”

“Everything,” Cas said, and there was conviction there that Dean hadn’t let himself notice before then. Conviction and intensity in the growl of his authoritative voice that seemed so out of place in that simply furnished, country-styled room. “Don’t you get that? It’s everything about you, Dean, that I can’t shake. And I don’t want to shake it off because you’re here, right now, and you’re beautiful. So stop fighting me.”

Cas reached over then, placing his fingers against the downturned hand Dean had resting against his stomach. The palm was cool against his skin, but comforting in a way that the shoulder hadn’t been. A reminder that his insecurities weren’t the only aspect of his character, and that Cas could see that about him. He just had to believe it, even if just for a moment. Just so he could hear these things and be okay. 

But they were eating at him, and making these first few moments unbearably painful, even if they shouldn’t have been. Painful because he’d let himself invest in something and he didn’t know how he was going to make it through. 

“I like you, Dean,” Cas murmured, rolling over so he could press his face in the crook of the other man’s neck near sleepily. It was warm, and ticklish, and he had could feel a sequence of butterflies erupt in the pits of his stomach. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I won’t go anywhere if you tell me to stay.”

“I want you to stay.” His voice shook, though he wasn’t sure why. Just, any anger he had was being knocked away with the shock of what had just occurred, and all he could respond with was what first came to his mind. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Good,” he replied, and Dean could feel the ghost of a smile against the skin of his neck. “Then Balthazar can go fuck himself.”

\--

The rest of the morning had run a smooth, lazy course. At first, Dean fell into the pattern that was very much Cas’ – letting the other shower first before taking his own, drinking coffee and reading paperback novels till the clock struck twelve – and he’d watched the time tick by without so much as a care. He was at rest, even. A fixture among the books and records and accent pillows. They didn’t talk much, though he could only assume that was one of Cas’ transcendent personality quirks he’d gotten a full taste of throughout Cassiel’s story. 

Anytime he’d pulled himself up, readying to go, the other would furl his brow in a way that showed disappointment in his leaving which, in turn, lead the other to sit back down for ‘just a few more minutes’. That was until hours had slipped by. And it was good, in this sense. Dean wondered if this was what a relationship would feel like, if he’d ever been in one long enough to get to this stage. How they’d ever managed a quiet dwelling together like this was beyond his reach of understanding, though he wasn’t about to question it. He just accepted what he had right before him and didn’t make a fuss about it. 

Because it was good, and he’d never let anything simply be good.

“I don’t know if I like this too much,” he said finally, breaking through the silence that had almost felt placated about them by this time. He’d been sitting in an armchair, book in hand, with Castiel’s back perched between his legs where he sat on the floor. The yellow cushion seemed to have been exactly for reading, as it turned out. “Lolita. It’s kind of uncomfortable.”

“It’s supposed to be,” Cas replied simply. He had a much smaller book resting against his knees. Poetry of some sort, though he hadn’t nestled down low enough to see exactly who. After all, Dean was not much for it. “It’s a classic, you know.”

“This guy wants to screw a little kid,” he grimaced. “I just don’t see why it’s even considered a classic. Has anyone actually enjoyed reading this?”

Cas laughed, and Dean could feel the shudder and shake of the other man’s shoulders between his kneecaps. It was a nice feeling, and one he hadn’t known he wanted till then. 

“What are you reading, anyways?”

“Ariel,” he replied pertly. “Sylvia Plath. It’s rather morose.”

“And you like morose?”

“I understand moroseness.”

Dean nodded, eyes flicking back towards the book in his own hand. Yes, moroseness was something Cas knew well, though he had a half-hope the other would enjoy something more light-hearted and less soul-crushing. Poetry had a way of making everything murky where prose would normally shed light. 

After a few more minutes of staring at the same three lines which he still hadn’t fully read, Dean spoke again. 

“Why are you going to New York anyways?”

This warranted a pause, the other man seeming to still for a moment before marking his page and closing the book. When he spoke, his voice was calm again, in that non-affronting manner, which made Dean wonder if that might have been his way of trying not to upset the other. “I’m supposed to promote my newest piece.”

This was a surprise.

“You’ve been writing?” 

“Poetry,” he replied, and it was coarser than usual. More gravel in his already pebbly tone. “I started writing poetry after the novel became popular. I hadn’t felt desire enough to write prose since.”

Dean nodded, though he wasn’t sure he could understand it. After all, Cas was a certain kind of puzzle that couldn’t be solved by a little probing and an ‘x’ quantity of alcohol consumption. He didn’t have an ex-husband who was cheating on him with his secretary, or a Nanny who was stealing all their fine china of whom he wasn’t sure how to bring it up without coming across as a racist. There was no ‘trouble at work’ pertaining to a big loss due government budget cuts, or stocks that went south. No, Cas wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met before, and maybe that’s why he found him so unnerving. 

“You should let me read a few of your pieces sometime,” Dean said, turning his eyes back towards the book. Nonchalance was the best way to approach, he knew. And he hoped Cas would be better for it. “I’m not much for poetry but I bet I’d like it.”

“No,” Cas replied. “No, I don’t think you would.”

Another break in pace. A quick response that laid pause to his probing. “I don’t know if that a jest or not, but I’m pretty sure I’d be perfectly capable of understanding it, if that’s what you’re trying to imply–.”

“No, no, not at all,” he cut in. “It’s terrible poetry.”

“Hey, no need to be immodest,” Dean raised his hands up with jokingly. “People might think your bragging or something.”

This earned him a quick side-glare, as the other turned to face him the best he could in the position he was in. When he’d successfully managed to get his own legs tangled with Dean’s left one, he gave up, instead resting his head against the bend in the young Winchester’s bowed knee. He let out another long, slow sigh before closing his eyes. 

“The publishing was announced three nights ago,” he said, voice dragging as if the whole topic exasperated him. “I’d hoped Balth would read it and hate and it that would be the end of it, but I wasn’t so fortunate. So I drank to celebrate my misfortune.”

“At the Chili Pepper.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “At the Chili Pepper.”

That explained a whole lot. After all, it was becoming blatantly more obvious with each minute that it just wasn’t in Castiel’s personality traits to go out drinking alone on a Thursday night, let alone taking someone home and not even managing to get that far. He seemed reclusive, and not a whole lot similar to the man who’d damn near seduced him out of his jeans with that quick-wittedness that came out so fluidly when he was enamored. 

“Then I already like your poetry,” Dean said finally, breaking the new silence. He wanted to keep things light humored if he could. “It got me laid. Twice.”

This earned him another knee shove, though there was a smile threatening the corners of the other man’s mouth in a way that made the warmth swell almost familiarly now. Yes, he wanted to bottle it and save it for a rainy day, if he could have. 

“Maybe three times, if you’re lucky.”

It wasn’t for another hour or so till Dean had finally pleaded the fifth and got up long enough to cement the fact that he really needed to get home. By this time it was already nearing four o’clock and he was sure Sam would have been right about ready to head over just in case Cas had turned out to be some kind of a serial killer after all. Dean had never spent more than a few hours in the morning with anyone he’d ever managed to spend more than a week or two with, let alone someone he’d just started seeing on a more personal level. 

Habits aside, it had been surprisingly difficult exiting that door. Cas had kissed him, deep and slow, fingers hooked into the other man’s belt-loops as if promising good things if he stayed, but he knew he wasn’t going to. He applied just enough pressure in return to be sweet then pulled himself away with a reluctance that tore at his insides. He liked Cas. He was damn near killing himself to know he’d have to go. 

“Come over tomorrow,” Cas said, when the other had opened the door, slowly moving himself towards the deathtrap stairs. “We’ll watch a movie or something.”

“Can’t. I’ve got to work someday, you know.”

“Then afterwards.”

“At two in the morning?”

“I’ll be awake,” he replied, and there was a soft desperation there which melted the other’s heartstrings together. A heavy throbbing mess. “Just come, please.”

After a few near debilitating seconds, Dean nodded his consent which he wasn’t altogether sure he regretted, pressed one more chaste kiss against the other’s mouth, and headed down those stairs without saying goodbye. He was sure it was better that way. There needn’t be reason to shut anymore doors if he could have. 

Yes, Dean was inexplicably happy, for all the things he hadn’t brought up. For the fact that even after a terrible attempt at making love that lead both parties into awkward fits, and a need to escape even still whereas the other seemed to need constant reassurance he wouldn’t, he still could find justification in his own joy. Because Cas seemed happy too, at the end of the day, and maybe, if they’d try again, it wouldn’t end in panic or dry-sobbing. 

And he wanted to try again. He wanted to be overwhelmed to the point of breaking. 

He wanted a lot of things so suddenly, and that, on its own, was overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, smut. And yes, I wasn't kidding about the plot thickening. 
> 
> Next chapter should be a nice break from the connection aspect of this. So if you're feeling a little dragged out by the heaviness of this, just know that it does lighten up a little. I promise!
> 
> Anyways, much love To Axe. She is perf. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have settled themselves down to a nice simmer, to the point that Dean considers himself enjoying the idea of domesticity. A few surprises in store, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter jumps ahead a couple weeks, just to speed things up a little. Just a fair warning!
> 
> A big thanks to Axephiel. Even when she's busy, she still manages to keep this pretty on time, which is awesome cause I'm terrible at timing. 
> 
> Anyways, here's the chapter!

Chapter 5: Baby 

Three weeks had gone by since that first date had occurred, and though it hadn’t felt like much of a date at the time, it had been a landmark in the short expanse the two had known each other. 

Dean had inevitably found himself slipping into the other man’s loft at all hours of the night, though sometimes earlier depending on how late he needed to work, and Cas had always been welcoming, even if, after the first few nights, he’d stopped trying to stay awake. There’d already been multiple occurrences when the young Winchester stumbled up the stairs and into the upper level just to find the other a heaped mess on the couch, or the yellow cushion on the floor with a book over his eyes. 

But this was of very little significance. Cas was still around, and Dean wanted to be with him any chance he could get. 

This, of course, came as no surprise to the youngest Winchester who, at first, razzed Dean to no end. But after the fourth or fifth night of the ashy-haired man’s bed being empty, he’d simply let live and, once in awhile, would give that other a cheeky little grin as a reminder that he was still watching. Still immeasurably happy. 

The best of times were the ones where Dean would find himself wrapped up in the tangle of the other man’s limbs. And though he found it increasingly more obvious that he’d never get a full, comfortable night’s rest with the blue-eyed man, he couldn’t have felt any more warmth in his chest cavity then if the other had physically lit a match there. It was like being burned alive in the most pleasant of cases. Set ablaze just to feel what intensity actually meant when finding something worth revolving your entire life around. And he was finding ways to make this happen. Finding excuses as to why it was okay for him to jump into something without looking down. 

He felt alive within his very sinews. A feeling he hadn’t known that could have existed until Cas. 

The other man, in that time, seemed no more or less desperate for consistency, which Dean had willingly provided. He hadn’t attempted to leave again, nor did he brush off the other man’s advances when he’d felt particularly unworthy. He kept in check because when he did, Cas was happiest, and that made the difference all the more poignant, even when he struggled more often than not with his own inner turmoil. Fortunately for him, he wasn’t struggling alone, even if his pain was far less palpable and forward. 

It seemed, even with this aspect still a glaring beacon in some regards, that Dean could be happy this way. Three weeks of Cas made him know that three more weeks were going to be just as good, and three months down the line, he’d be sure to want another three more. 

Because Cas was a certain kind of person that you could tear apart and examine bit by bit and yet, at the end of the day, it was the big picture that always seemed to change. To adapt. There was nothing explicably different about the bend in his upper lip, or the way his feet slid across the floor, but when he spoke with more blatancy, or stopped hiding his need for outward intimacy, he became real. More rounded, and more Cas than Cassiel could ever depict. 

They went to bed many nights the same way they had gone to bed on that first date, and though, during the beginning period, it still had that overwhelming undertone, there was a sweetness to it that became damn near addictive. Dean never let it stray too far from the usual tricks because that was what he knew he could handle, and that was what he knew Cas could handle. The older man never questioned it, and never pushed to go any further than that, because that intimacy was necessary. And trust inexplicably so. 

A pattern had arisen and, in Dean’s world, it was okay. Even if wholly, and what might be deemed as unnaturally, co-dependent. 

Saturday night had come and gone, and though it had been of the usual business, Dean found himself itching to get out. He’d been listening to a drawling tale of loss and woe. Of how this man’s cheating wife managed to get the dog in the divorce and how she could go fuck her alimony payments for all he cared. It was the kind of story the young Winchester would usually let himself settle into, because he liked stories and he liked faces, and this was the kind of guy he knew all too well. 

But he couldn’t seem to do that tonight. He felt himself spacing out on multiple occasions, letting the words fold around him instead of picking him up and settling him back. He was thinking, inexplicably, of Cas. Of those long, languid fingers. Of the cool jut of his hipbones. The mark of age that crinkled in his eyes, his brows. And he liked that about him, more than he liked many things about himself. 

He had settled on the eye-crinkles, counting each back and forth like he’d let himself once when they were lying in the curl of each other’s bodies, laughing because they’d long since finished complaining, and it was good to be at ease. Good to be okay with each other and the place they’d managed to dig themselves a spot in. 

“Are you listening?”

Dean snapped back, eyes flicking down towards the slumped man who was watching him now, head resting against an open palm. He didn’t look altogether pleased. “Yeah, sorry. Keep going.”

The man lapsed back into a detailed description of the hot lawyer he’d screwed to get back at his wife, not seeming to miss a beat but that might have been due to the alcohol he’d been shoveling back. Fortunately though, it was getting close to last call and the bar was finally starting to lend itself some finality. 

When Jo buzzed by him next to go pick up the empty bottles and glasses from abandoned tables, Dean tapped her arm, pausing her long enough to ask a muted question. 

“Can I head off a little early? Or do you need me to help close up?”

Jo’s brows furrowed momentarily, scoffing when she’d heard the proposal. “It’s Saturday, Dean.”

“And?”

“And we’re busy. Course I need your help closing up.”

This was not a highly enticing option. He’d half-hoped he would have had the chance slip out without notice like he had a few of those not so busy nights. But Jo was right and it was still relatively busy. He would wait it out. 

By the time the bar had emptied out and the tables were washed down, it was already two-thirty. Dean wondered if Cas would even be awake by the time he got to the loft, which was becoming more and more unlikely every minute he was stuck tossing bottles out in the back recycling and mopping up the spilt beer off the leather upholstered benches. He would still go because he simply couldn’t not. Just, he was starting to think it might have been better if he went and slept in his own bed for once. 

Finally, and with a certain amount of trepidation he hadn’t meant to feel, Dean gave a quick wave and a ducking exit the moment Jo had said they were done. He felt mildly for his disappearing act seeing as Jo had always been nothing but kind to him and running out on her like that was probably not the nicest of gestures. But time was of the essence, and the sooner he was ‘home’, the better. 

The car ride was quick. Too quick, in fact, seeing as he was sure he’d broken a couple different speeding laws in that excessively fast drive. But this was all okay when he’d slipped his car into its familiar spot in the driveway. The place where he was sure Cas should have had a vehicle, but did not appear to feel the need to own one. This was something he’d learned already, from conversing with him. Cas, of all things, liked walking best. 

He pushed the unlocked door open, took the stairs two-by-two – though he wasn’t quite as afraid of them as he had initially been – and headed into the still lit loft where he hoped Cas would be waiting, and maybe still awake, if he were lucky. 

At first, he thought fortune favored him. Cas was awake, pacing back and forth along the expanse of his living-room in a slow, measured pace. He had an expression of what looked to be apprehension stamping his features with worry. A curve to his not so subtle brow, though this was something he had learnt to read weeks ago. Cas was always vague in expression, but each little quirk meant something wild and personal. 

He slipped his shoes off, watching the other man move about. This was when he noticed the phone, which Cas had tucked against his ear where it seemed damn near invisible thanks to its size. The older man was talking with vigor, and it sounded uncomfortably brutal when compared to the calmer wording he’d expected of the older man. 

“I told you, Balth, I don’t care about the promotion,” he was saying. And he sounded exasperated. “No, I said I wasn’t coming. I have things that need to be done here so promote the damn book yourself if you’re so worried about it-- right, yeah, yeah, I get that. I know, and I get that, really.”

Dean dropped his jacket on the hanger before sliding across the smooth floor. He pretended not to hear the name Balth on the other man’s lips for the sheer fact that he just didn’t want to know. It was better this way, not to try and find reasons to be jealous. 

When Cas looked up, his expression went from pained and wiry to calm within seconds, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He headed towards the young Winchester who, in turn, let his hands fall against the other man’s hips. 

“Bad day at the office?” Dean quirked, rubbing small circles into the other man’s sides. Cas’ smile grew for a second before elapsing back into that calm, straight face. 

“I’ve got to go.” he said, and for a moment Dean feared he was saying it to him, till he noticed the glassy complacent look in the other man’s ocean eyes. “No, I get this is not over, and I really don’t care to be quite frank. Yes, he’s here-- Okay, enough, Balth. We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning, okay? Okay, goodbye.”

And with that he hung up the phone, head falling listlessly against the other man’s shoulder. He let out a small groan, shoulders slackening. Dean draped his arms around the older man knowingly, pressing his lips against the smooth brow with a tenderness he felt always necessary with Cas. 

“What was that about?” he asked when the older man finally pulled himself back up, hand reaching to rub at his eyes. He looked exhausted, which wasn’t surprising seeing as it was three in the morning and neither had had a very good sleep the prior night. 

“Balth has been on my case about the launch party.” he replied, sighing again. “He’s rather persuasive when he wants to be.”

“So New York, then.”

He nodded, reaching his hands up so he could cup Dean’s face within them. And it was a soft touch. A gentle reminder of how much he could never not want him. “I won’t go anywhere if you tell me to stay, Dean. I made a promise and I don’t intend on forgetting it.”

“But you want to go.” The words were there again, as if drawn from within the confines of his chest. He was that perched cigarette, always being drawn on and always yielding. Burning, brooding death stick on the bed of the blue-eyed man’s lip. “And you’re staying even still.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if willing a response to come but not knowing how to phrase it. And it was hard to watch the older man struggle for a moment as if the information didn’t compute. After a few more shunted seconds, he spoke. 

“Come with me.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

Cas had that look about him then. That conviction in his brow and the steady black line of his pressed lips seeming to stretch taut. He smoothed his fingers across Dean’s forehead, his jawline, dragging blunt nails delicately across the smooth, though predominant bags under his tired eyes. And he was tired, even with the other man’s presence being something he found necessary. He wanted a full night’s rest. 

“Come with me,” Cas repeated, and he was soft. Imploring. His lips came up skim the skin of Dean’s own ever so softly. A brush, really. Enough so that the small hairs on the back of the young Winchester’s neck stood on end. “I don’t want to go unless you’re with me.”

He felt exasperated. “I can’t just get up and leave.”

“Take a vacation,” the older man replied simply. “We’ll stay for a week or two. Just enough for the release party.”

Dean wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose but couldn’t due to the close proximity in which the other managed to create. And it was annoying how easy he could be swayed by a bat of thin brown lashes. How the other seemed to grasp the fact that the young Winchester couldn’t say no when pulled apart, bit by bit. He bit his lip, thinking instead of how he wanted to kiss those lips silent, instead. 

“I’ll make it good,” he continued, and this time hotly. His breath was warm against Dean’s lower lip, and smelt faintly of liqueur. “Please, Dean. For me.”

“You’ve been drinking?”

The older man sighed, resting back on his heels then which created just enough distance so the other could breathe again. This gave Dean enough time to double back and think on what had just happened. Yes, it did make more sense then he should have liked it too. At least, when it came to Cas’ own persuasion skills. 

“I always drink when I talk to Balth,” he replied nonchalantly, turning towards the small glass left abandoned on the coffee table he hadn’t noticed when he first came in. There was only the dredge of what may have been Disaronno pooling at the bottom of it, which the other raised and drank in one small sip. “I can’t handle him otherwise.”

“I see.”

Another silence. There was a palpable tension then, though Dean couldn’t quite tell why it had turned out the way it did. Just that, he really wanted things to run smoothly, if he could manage it. And as much as he should have liked things to remain simple and without any real imminent direction, he should have been more susceptive to what Cas wanted. Hell, he should have _known_ that Cas wanted things too, outside of what they both needed from each other. 

But Cas wasn’t the type to say he wanted anything. Just that, if he wanted it enough, he simply took it, and if not, then he let it go. New York was something he had been willing to let go of. For Dean. 

“Okay.”

Cas looked back, brow raised in suspicion. “Pardon?”

“I’ll go,” he said. It was awkward, and jaunty, but he said it, and it felt like a big bubble of air had finally been popped in his stomach. “To New York, that is. If you want me to.”

The older man’s face went from that rugged consternation to ostentatiously happy in mere seconds, striding over so he could fling his arms around the other man’s shoulders like he’d just won the lottery, or maybe accepted a proposal for marriage. And, at first, the enthusiasm caught the young Winchester off guard, rocking back on his heels as to catch himself from toppling over at the sudden force of the other man’s body. When he’d recovered from this, bracing Cas’ hips within his fingers again, he knew why he felt so disquieted. 

Cas was happy. Possibly drunk, but happy. 

“I know I’m asking a lot,” he said, and his words were blurring together now (though that might have been the lack of sleep on Dean’s own part) “And I’m not saying it’s going to be a very enjoyable experience, but Gabriel will be in town, and Anna too. And, just, thank you.”

“Thank me in the morning,” he said, yawning then. He wished he wasn’t so exhausted. He might have enjoyed the moment more if he hadn’t been so damn tired. “When you’re not intoxicated. Man, I need some sleep.”

Cas nodded, but there was still a grin ghosting the edges of his perfect mouth. An expression that made Dean shudder, helplessly. Yes, he loved those lips, and the fine lines that marked his eyes. He loved a lot of things about Cas, which was why he hadn’t left. 

“Sleep,” the older man confirmed, letting his arms lower just enough so his hands were now pressed against the Dean’s chest. He didn’t look like he wanted to move but there was a certainty in his voice that knew it was for the better. “Come, come. Let’s get some rest. We’ll talk it out when we wake up.”

“Deal.”

\--

Unfortunately for Dean, morning came far too earlier. And with panic, no less. 

He hadn’t expected that he’d be raised by the sound of his cellphone blaring a torrent of AC/DC he’d forgotten to set to silence. Hell, he hadn’t remembered he even carried the damn thing with him seeing as he hadn’t started bringing it with him anywhere ‘till he started spending all his time with Cas. But there it was, blasting away. A reminder that the real world still existed. 

He opened his eyes slowly, groaning as he slipped himself out of bed. It couldn’t have been more than seven, or eight at the earliest, and Cas was still curled up with his eyes closed, even though Dean was sure he wasn’t sleeping. It was chilly that morning, like it had been chilly all throughout the beginning of May. A colder spring he couldn’t remember. 

In any case, he could feel his expression turn to something close to a grimace when his feet hit the cold wood flooring, wondering why he’d never thought of bringing over a pair of slippers till that very moment. 

The cellphone had been strategically placed in the back pocket of Dean’s Jeans, which just so happened to be across the room piled lazily on the only chair in that small space. He dug it out haphazardly, feeling the cool lozenge in the palm of his hand only briefly before flicking it open. An old Samsung model he’d never attempted replacing due to its lack of use. When he placed it against his ear, he could feel the grogginess in his voice pull through. 

“Dean speaking.”

“Dude, you’ve got to come home. Now.”

Sam. The voice made him alert, but at the same time, annoyed. Had it been any other situation and he would have bolted out the door at the mere mention of Sam possibly needing him, but he was tired, and four hours of sleep was just not going to cut it anymore. 

“Can’t this wait until ten?” He asked, rubbing his eyes momentarily. He could feel the dredge of his sinews, as if a mechanical moan. Robotic as the movements were, his brain still felt like it’d been smacked up against the wall too many times. “I literally just got back from work like two-.”

“Jess’ pregnant.”

The phone went silent. 

At first, Dean just stood there, not quite sure what he was expected to do or say. It seemed like a pretty sick joke if that was what Sam had been playing at, though the tone hadn’t been one he would have expected from the younger Winchester. Just, he couldn’t compute it. He was so tired he could barely register the words that had just been said. 

So he replied simply with, “…what?”

“Jess’ pregnant,” Sam said again, this time with a bit more hysteria. “Damn it, Dean, I’m freaking out here! Can you _please_ come home or something cause I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now.”

“Hold on a second,” he said, the bridge of his nose now pinched between forefinger and thumb. “So you’re saying you got Jess _knocked up_?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Just come home, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Dude, don’t just say ‘yeah, okay’ like ‘yeah, okay’. I’m boiling here.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He could damn near hear the bitch-face he just received through the phone, though in some regards he suspected he deserved it. This wasn’t a joking matter, and it sure as hell wasn’t something that was going to go over too well with the Moore’s. Just that, if this had to happen to anyone, it had to be Sammy. 

After a few more seconds of pleading on Sam’s part for the other to get his ass moving, Dean acquiesced. The relief in the youngest Winchester’s voice had been palpable, and enough to draw the other back towards his abandoned jeans. After giving quick goodbyes, the Dean began redressing. 

A moment later, Cas’ voice was heard from the left side of the bed, muted and perfect as it was. 

“Going so soon?”

“Family drama,” the other responded, and his own voice dragged in a way that marked his exhaustion. He would have loved to curl back up in the warmth of Cas’ bed. Curled into the heat of the other man’s body just for a few more hours, even if he didn’t sleep a wink. But Sam needed him even if he was exhausted. “I’ll come by around four-ish? We’ll talk about the trip then, okay?”

He nodded, pulling himself up slowly. And he was glorious, tussled up and sleepy still. His hair was a mess and his stubble was starting to become extremely unruly. It was sexy in ways Dean had never thought anything could be, or anyone for that matter. “Alright, I guess.”

Dean was attempting to do up his belt, fumbling mechanically with the strap of leather. And for some reason he just couldn’t make the metal bit go through the hole. His eyes kept blurring out, fingers losing pressure at all the wrong times, till he gave up, exasperated. “Fuck this, man.”

“Let me help.”

Cas shimmied over, taking a large breadth of the sheets with him. When he’d finally managed to get to the end of the bed, he reached out, grasping the other man’s belt before looping it through and clasping the metal bit easily. And it was nice to watch him work, even if for just a few seconds. Cas had this sort of concentrated look about his features that always seemed so serene when he lingered on something. Like how he’d lingered on Dean the first night they’d met. And though it seemed like such a short time ago, the young Winchester couldn’t help but miss the look. 

“There,” he said, leaning back. “All done.”

“Thanks,” he replied mutedly. He picked up his shirt, then, trying not to think of this change in behavior anymore than he needed to. 

After he’d managed to slip the fabric of his work shirt over his head, he turned towards Cas, smiling briefly before leaning down so he could press his lips against the corner of the older man’s mouth. This was always his favourite part. The bittersweet taste of the final kiss. Because it was good in the moment, but over far too quickly. 

“You’re going to be able to drive, right?” Cas asked, and his voice was strained, as if with worry. 

“I should be fine.”

“You couldn’t do up your own belt.”

“Your point being?”

The older man seemed to pause, his brows furrowing for a moment as if unpleased with the circumstances pertaining to the need of it. His hands clenched the sheets spasmodically, lips pulling down at the corners in a way that voiced his displeasure towards the subject without him having to physically relay it. 

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said, hand pressing against the other man’s bare shoulder briefly. “Has anyone ever told you, you worry too much?”

“Let me drive you,” he said, and he was getting disquieted now. “We’ll go, and I can even wait in the car if you don’t want me to come inside.”

“You really are worried, aren’t you?”

After a few seconds of his eyes darting around and his lips opening and closing as if searching for the correct way to word a response, he simply nodded. His shoulders slumped at the admittance. 

Dean could feel the sigh on his own lips, but suppressed it the best he could. It was probably for the best that he didn’t say much on the subject matter, in case it offended or hurt the other party. Just that, if there was one thing he knew, it was driving, and it was his baby. He was pretty sure he would have been able to drive quite well without having any consciousness whatsoever, let alone a very little amount as was his current state of being. 

But Cas seemed worried, and it was better not to test those waters. 

“This is a pretty shitty time to come meet my brother,” he said, but this was enough to catch the other man’s interest. Enough, in fact, to make the small smile pull at the corners of his mouth yet again. “So you’d better dress quickly. He’s probably hyperventilating.”

For the next little while, everything sort of blurred together. Cas got ready quickly, though he did take a shower which, in turn, put them behind by a good fifteen minutes. By the time they were dressed and on the road, it had already been a good half hour, and the text messages were already starting to flood in from his panic-ridden younger brother, depicting exponential amounts of frustration and ferocity. Two things that Sam hadn’t had a real affliction for in any normal situation. But, of course, this was no normal situation, and Dean knew he shouldn’t have felt so mellow about it. 

Cas drove which, at first, came across as a rather large dismay to the young Winchester. He had half-hoped the older man would choose to be contented with the passenger seat as long as he was coming for the ride. This, of course, had been disputed and not for very long. After all, Dean wouldn’t win in a fight against a worried Castiel. 

The drive was too long, at least in the young Winchester’s standard. He’d flipped between radio stations with a certain amount of anxiety, settling on old rock before turning his attention towards the AC which he blasted, then the window, which he rolled up and down then back up again when the slightly chilled air knocked at his lungs. A cold spring it had been, but of little consequence to Dean who couldn’t shake the fact that he wasn’t in the driver’s seat. That he’d actually let the other man take the wheel. And he was tired. So tired that he could feel his eyelids drag at the very thought of what was about to come. 

Sure enough, it started to dwell within the confines of his stomach the moment he directed the older man into the underground parking lot. How they’d managed to get that far without him having blown up completely was something of a mystery to him. Even still, he was alive, and his baby was in one piece. Cas had seemed some kind of a relic in all of this, hands light on the steering wheel as if barely applying pressure, and eyes slipping from object to object near lazily. It seemed so natural watching Cas drive his car. 

“Lead the way,” he said when they’d managed to park. Dean hadn’t moved from his spot until the keys were back in his pocket, safe and sound. 

When they’d got to the elevator, Dean let his body slump against the other man ever so slightly. Just enough of a press to make the other tense up for a second, before reflexively wrapping his arm around the young Winchester’s shoulder. And they stood like that, both tired, though Dean exponentially so. Because, as much as they should have been concerned with the welfare of the youngest Winchester, this had been a bit of a milestone for them, and neither were willing to admit it. 

When they got to the apartment, Sam was reeling. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Dean watched with tired amusement at the sight of his younger brother storming about the small kitchen, washing the table down with a bucket of soapy water and a rag he’d not strained out properly before use. When he’d finished with the surface – a now wet, soppy mess – he began the legs, then the floor underneath, not once looking up to say hello or to do anything other than panic through extensive cleaning. 

“You don’t look so good, Sammy,” Dean said, yawning. This brought those grey-green eyes up for a brief second, hand stilling from its prior ministrations for just a moment before the frown turned to a look of confusion and surprise. 

“Castiel Novak!” he said, jumping up into a standing position, nearly maiming himself off the island when he stepped back and away from the bucket. His hands were up in front of him like he were surrendering, knees of his jeans and sleeves of his shirt quite soaked through. 

And he looked tired too, as if he’d slept just about as much as Dean had. Which wouldn’t have been too much of a surprise. Sam was off for the summer and, in turn, had taken up his full-time job at the Sunny motel down on fifth, fixing the air-conditioning and clogged drains. And cleaning, if and when there was no work to be found otherwise. 

At this moment, Sam couldn’t have looked older if he tried. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam Winchester,” Cas said, nodding his head once in response to the jumping back and the panic at seeing the older man. All seriousness. All sincerity. 

“He didn’t think I was going to be able to drive on four hours of sleep,” Dean said, hand raised to his mouth to staunch yet another uncontrollable yawn. He leant against Cas just a little bit further, wondering if the other man was sturdy enough to keep him up. “I’ll drive him home after I’ve slept a bit more.”

Sam nodded, though they could both see him physically gulp at air when this had been mentioned. His eyes would dart from Dean to Cas, then back to Dean as if fearful of lingering too long on the disheveled man in the dirty trench coat. 

Finally, and with some added effort, Dean stood on his own, stripping off his jacket and shoes in a way that was surprisingly effective, even if he nearly tripped against the doorframe and had to have Cas hold his shoulder whilst he struggled with his laces. He’d managed, though, and soon enough, both parties were heading towards the living room, Sam drying up some of the water with a few sheets of paper towel before he did so. 

Dean settled himself down in the armchair, rubbing his eyes momentarily whilst the older man took his place behind him, hands on his shoulders as if looming over. And it was a strange feeling, seeing as Dean hadn’t real gone anywhere with him before, so now that they were both in the presence of another being – albeit Sam – a few more natural quirks seemed to make themselves known in his character. The possessiveness was one. 

“So, Jess.” Dean said after his younger brother had taken his own seat in the la-Z boy, body so large it barely seemed to contain him. And it was strange, in some regards, watching his brother lean over, hands knotted and features filled with worry. He didn’t move from his position but to rock on a few occasions, still peeling his eyes in Cas’ direction every so often as if in shock the other was there. In some ways, it made Dean regret bringing along the older man. That was, until he felt the press of thumbs against his tense shoulders, rubbing circles into the hardened muscle. “She’s pregnant?”

Sam nodded, down-turning completely. His gentle rocking stilled, large feet braced against the wood flooring. 

“What do you plan on doing?”

This may not have been the most sensitive question to ask, but Dean was tired, and he didn’t feel like beating around the bush. Instead, he watched as his brother crumbled further, looking up only once before the words came out. “I have no fucking idea.”

Dean merely nodded, feeling his own lips downturn. It was not an easy situation to be in. One that he knew well enough, seeing as he still had an inkling about Ben, and about whose kid he really was at the end of the day. Just, Lisa had never let it be known, and he’d never asked it of her. It was better to leave some stones unturned in that department. 

But with Sam, everything was at the forefront. The pinnacle. And it was odd watching him seem so bent out of shape. 

After a moment, Cas spoke, and his voice was warm. Soft even. It brought both Winchester’s attention back on him. 

“Do you want a child?” he asked, and it was a simple question. He had that imploring look at his face. The concentrated one that made Dean feel suddenly extremely inadequate. It’d been weeks since he’d seen Cas use it towards anyone. Weeks since he’d seen it towards himself. 

Sam nodded, and he looked almost eager when he did so. “Of course I do. That was always the plan.”

“The plan?” Dean asked, turning his attention back towards his brother. “You _want_ a kid?”

“Not now, or rather,” he replied, and he looked suddenly awfully embarrassed. “I mean, this isn’t exactly something we were _planning_ for now of all times. But like, a few years down the line, you know? A family and a big house. That kind of stuff.”

Dean nodded, though his mouth was still open, and his brows still furrowed. He looked as if the subject completely zoomed over his head, though he supposed it really shouldn’t have. As much as, at the time, he would have loved to be Ben’s dad, he couldn’t imagine Sam having that same obligatory family want. He’d always seemed so into his studies, and into the present to deal with things that could and would happen down the line. 

But this, well. This was new information, and one he had to take a few seconds to compute. 

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, then.” Cas said, no break in his stoic expression. The calm against the storm. Dean raised his hand up so he could press his fingers ever so slightly against the ones now looming on his shoulder, gentle as ever. He really was a relic of a man, smooth around the edges and simple in ways Sam might have been seen as simple. That was, until you dug deep enough to find the glass shards. “Where is the Missus, anyways?”

This made Sam blush. “Oh, Jess? She went home to grab a few things. She’s a little shaken up over the subject.”

“Figures,” Dean added, not wanting to let the subject get out of his hands. “And she, uh. What’s her stance, you know. On the subject, er-- She gonna…?”

“Keep it? Yeah, she made it known when she told me this morning.”

“Okay, well, then good, I guess,” he said, scratching the back of his head. After a few seconds of this, Cas carded his own fingers through the messy bedhead, not taking the hint that it’d been a nervous fidget. It still felt good though, nonetheless. “Looks like we’re gonna have a little Winchester running around the apartment, huh?”

Sam shrugged, not particularly amused. And it made Dean nervous, watching him like that. Knowing the panic he must have been feeling. The younger Winchester had only a year left to go and then he’d be off paying his dues to the corporate world. Where a family fit into all of this was something that hadn’t been a problem till then. Just, when it was, it couldn’t be avoided. Couldn’t be changed. 

“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he said finally, and it was so resolute, it had taken Dean by surprise. 

He quirked a brow, surprised. “Wait, what?”

“Jess,” he replied, and his face had taken that serious tone again. “I’m going to ask her to marry me. I’ve been thinking about it for awhile now and I--”

“Define ‘awhile’,” Dean cut in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you’re marrying this girl just ‘cause you got her knocked up.”

“It’s not that.”

“You sure?”

Sam groaned, resting his head against his arm. “Yes, Dean. I’m positive.”

The room went quiet, which was now a near necessity. For a moment, the older Winchester had to breathe through his nose just to calm his new bought of annoyance. And it hadn’t been something he’d felt so acutely, prior. More or less, he hated the idea that his brother could be making bigger mistakes just because he wanted to right the first one, which was never a good option. In this case, it could only go to worsen things, if not meant truly. 

But Sam wasn’t the type to do something just because he felt bad. When things were thrown his way, he adapted, and grew from it, but mistakes were something rarely made on his part. And maybe, at the end of the day, he knew what he was getting himself into. This was something Dean would need to find a way to hold onto. 

“So, you’re getting married,” he said, shuffling in his seat momentarily. “Congrats, then.”

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” he said, and he seemed to lighten up a bit when the older Winchester had let it go so quickly. “I still have to convince her to marry me, you know.”

“It’s you, Sammy boy,” Dean said, and he smiled too, because it seemed like the only likely expression worth giving. Yes, being supportive was necessary, even if he wasn’t quite sure he could level himself with his brothers imminent choices. “She’s bound to say yes.”

“You have more faith in me than I do.”

The rest of the morning drained away in this light humor. Mostly small talk ensued, which was more geared towards Cas then it had been Sam’s own issues. Quick questions about the book which, after being danced around enough, were dropped pretty quickly. After the basic topics had been skimmed over, Dean made it pretty clear that he was in need of some sleep, which Cas had acquiesced in letting him do so. 

He, of course, stayed out in the living room, managing a light bit of conversation with Sam, who seemed honestly intrigued with the older man, nodding and asking about opinions on writers and philosophers. Mostly Sam talking, if they were being completely honest, seeing as Cas’ answers were usually one-worded and his opinions stated in clear, decisive summaries. By the time Dean had managed to slump his way out of the room, they’d already started in on Richard Dawkins, which was a subject he didn’t want to get caught up in. 

He fell asleep to the sounds of muted voices, warm as both were. It was a condolence of its own to hear it. 

\--

When Dean woke, he was sure it had to have been later than he’d originally planned, seeing as the sky outside his window was already starting to darken, leaving his room a cool deep shadow. And as much as he knew he shouldn’t have felt so content upon seeing it, it made him miss the solemn space. The area of which was his alone, and how he’d spent every night for months coming home to this safe spot before Cas. 

But he did not dwell on things he didn’t have to. An empty room was no match to a large warm bed with Cas, even if it had meant his gaining more than a handful of hours of sleep. In this case, he felt rejuvenated. Ready for another three weeks of not sleeping because he’d had the time to do so. He would have gladly given up rest for another couple nights with Cas. 

When he pulled himself up, muscles aching and eyes dragging back down as if willing him to get just a few more minutes in, he let his feet hit the familiar feel of worn carpet. Let his fingers dwell in the soft fold of his cheap blankets. When he’d done this, he felt ready enough to head out towards the living room, which he was sure Cas would still be waiting for him. 

Sure enough, both Sam and Cas were still talking, though they’d brought their conversation out into the kitchen. Sam was cooking, which was probably not such a pleasant idea, whilst the other man sat at the island, watching him, then Jess, who’d returned probably sometime after Dean had fallen asleep. She seemed jovial in ways Sam hadn’t been, but that might have been because she was hosting a guest. 

“It’s a horrible affair, but one I should like to see more familiar faces,” Cas was concluding when Dean sat down next to him, groggy as hell. “Good evening, Dean.”

“Oh, hey,” he said, resting his elbow against the countertop so he could lean his head in the palm of his hand. He was hungry, and overtired. “Sorry for sleeping so long.”

“It’s okay,” he replied. Dean could feel the touch of fingers against his lower back. Just a brush there and it was enough of a shock to send an eruption of bumps along his forearms. “I was just getting to know Miss Moore.”

“He’s an interesting fellow,” she added, smiling. And she looked good like she’d always looked good, curly hair knotted in a low ponytail and skin glowing in ways it only ever seemed to glow for her. Then again, Sam had the same effect if and when he was in a good enough mood to exude his flare gun, sunbeam expressions. “Mr. Novak here was telling me about your trip to New York?”

Right. New York. 

“I was thinking,” Cas continued, turning his attention now solely on Dean. His hand had travelled up along the older Winchester’s shoulder blades, smoothing across the now wrinkled fabric. “that we could make a group trip of it. Jess and Sam both seem very much attuned to the idea, if you don’t mind adding a few more bodies to the mass.”

Dean shrugged, not sure if he should have been happy or annoyed at the mention of it. Hell, he hadn’t much thought about the if’s and then’s when he’d first agreed to the little escapade. Now that he’d sufficiently slept on it, he wasn’t altogether sure he knew what he was getting himself into when it came to the older man’s intentions. Just that, he’d agreed to it, and he’d follow through because he’d said he would.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said, not really putting any emphasis on it. If Cas wanted Sam and Jess to come along, that was his prerogative. This was out of his hands. 

The older man’s hand stilled for a moment, as if this answer hadn’t been exactly what he’d expected. After a few stalled, quiet moments, his hand continued on, then dropped completely. The loss of it came as a bit of a surprise to the young Winchester. 

“It’ll be difficult getting that time off work,” Sam was saying, but he was smiling, flipping something akin to what may have been chicken in a large wok. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

The rest of the night seemed to go by in this way, Cas nodding and listening intently to Jess and Sam, making pleasant observations and even attempting to eat the dried out chicken and undercooked vegetable stir-fry Sam had made. Dean merely sat and watched, not really paying attention to any of the specifics, but more or less trying not to look like a bump on a log in the case of how he felt. He loved his brother, and he loved Jess too. Just, he didn’t know if he was quite ready to have his new secret world mesh with the one he’d always known. 

And Cas. Well, Cas seemed to blossom under the present circumstances. He may have been jaunty in some regards, and as awkward as ever, but he looked honestly happy. Something that Dean feared he couldn’t inspire so much anymore as he once could. He didn’t feel inspiring enough to bring out that curious look. Inspire questions and confusion and the need to compute. He wasn’t living up to Cas’ expectations already, and he knew it. 

It made him suddenly, excruciatingly tired. 

“I should be getting home shortly,” Cas said finally, turning his attention back towards Dean for the first time in what felt like an hour or more. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sam and Jess both gave their final goodbyes, pleasant as they were. They treated Cas with the utmost respect and humility, even going so far as to walk him to the door, which was something Dean could have easily done on his own. And it was strange, watching the family dynamic. Strange because he’d half-hoped there would have been less formality to this then there had been. Maybe he’d just hoped he wouldn’t feel jealous. 

When they’d managed to exit out of the apartment – which was no easy feat seeing as the conversation seemed to will itself to keep going – the older Winchester could feel himself visibly slump.

“You okay?” Cas was hovering now, too close in that small elevator which they’d rode down to basement level. His hand had grabbed Dean’s, fingers intertwining loosely as was his natural habit, and the younger man let him, not really reciprocating, but not putting up much of a front either. He merely shrugged, and let the elevator take them down in silence. 

This, of course, extended out into the parking lot, and for most of the car ride itself, seeing as Dean had blasted the radio loud enough that neither could have really successfully heard each other. And this, in its own way, was okay. It gave him time to think, which he did too often these days. Time to dwell on the fact that he still felt undeniably inadequate. 

When they’d pulled into the driveway, he had damn near convinced himself that he would go home afterwards. Get a night’s rest away from the blue-eyed man he found so enthralling yet couldn’t manage to believe felt the same about him. 

“You coming?” Castiel asked when Dean hadn’t moved from the driver’s seat. He had that look about him that screamed worry, which Dean could feel within his own chest, palpable as it was. He blinked a few times, fingers knotted around the steering wheel. 

“I think I might head on home tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Cas, who had been in the midst of swinging himself out of the front seat, let himself drop back down, like he had the night they’d first pulled into the driveway. And it was a wave of nostalgia that Dean let hit him so hard it nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs. 

“I’ll come with you, then,” he said. Resolute. He had that look about him, again. That blissful ignorance, which he wondered if it was a set streak of denial as if he’d honestly wanted to pretend that the other hadn’t be reciprocating all night. That was, but for the curve in his brow. Haughty and all too aware. The little quirks in his expression that bore his understanding better than his words ever could. 

Dean rested his head against the steering wheel, not sure of how to word a response to that without it coming across as extremely offensive. After a few seconds, he decided it was better to simply say it. 

“I meant alone, Cas,” he said, and this itself seemed to take the air right out of his sails. 

The older man’s eyes widened for a moment, as if this piece of information honestly surprised him. And there was a streak of hurt, just barely skimming the surface of those pearly orbs, making it just clear enough to a practiced eye that this was something that pained him. And deeply. 

But after that half-second passed, his hard expression returned, stoic and blank like they day they’d met at the bar. If he hadn’t known any better, he may have been able to assume the older man was completely fine with this piece of information, but for the still lingering image of what had just transpired. If only he had been looking out towards the garage, or the steering wheel, or his hands. Yes, he could have watched him go. 

“If that is what you wish, Dean Winchester.”

He’d made a mistake. He wanted to take it back. 

Cas started to get out, this time a bit more quickly and jauntier then the last, seeing as his movements had gained a certain awkwardness to them. And Dean kept his eyes on him as he headed out. He watched him shut the door, quietly and a little too softly so that the hinges hadn’t had the chance to lock themselves. But this was of no concern to Cas, who was now heading towards his apartment, tripping over stones after a few heavy footed strides. It was all a blur of stomping feet and disappointment that lead to one of the more prominent cracks in the driveway. 

Dean was out of the car before he’d known he’d cared enough, running towards bump of trench coat that had landed on the cement only seconds prior. And Cas’ shoulders were shaking, straining. Showing a confusion not so much his own but the combination of the two. He’d fallen quite hard when he’d tripped. Enough that there was skin missing from the palms of his hands and the blood speckled through the knees of his jeans. He looked downright hopeless, if that were a word choice the other man could have used for him. Hopeless and lost. 

“I-uh, I didn’t mean to trip,” he was mumbling when the other man came swooping in, trying to pull at his arm, his shoulder. Anything really, that he could manage to get his fingers around, which was soon quickly ended by a ducking gesture from the older man, damn near offended as he was. “Get off, would you? I’m fine.”

“You just ate pavement,” Dean grumbled, reaching down again. “Come on, let me help you.”

Cas ducked again, this time swatting at the younger man’s hands with an expression of contempt. “Dean, I said I was fine!”

“And I don’t believe you. Now shut up and take my hand.”

“No.”

Dean could feel his anger slip away just as his prior reservations had. Maybe because it was funny, in a way. Funny that he assumed he would even be able to fight it. And even if fighting it were an option, he would never choose to do so. Not at the end of the day, when he’d built up all his resolve and all his conviction. None of it would have mattered, because he still would have jumped right on after if Cas jumped first. 

“Fine,” he said, standing tall now. And he could feel the smile forming, though well-timed wouldn’t have been a good way to describe it. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, holding his expression as still as was physically possible. “I’ll stop, but I’m not going anywhere until you’re up and inside.”

“Fine.”

“ _Fine_.”

Cas rolled his eyes in a prolonged way, huffing like he’d just lost a bet or was told to take the trash out. It was immature, and naïve, but charming in ways that couldn’t really be defined. Because, if it’d been anyone else, Dean wasn’t so sure they would’ve caught the charm in it. Then again, maybe they would. “Just give me a second.”

It looked painful watching the older man hoist himself up on injured hands. Even more so when he’d gotten himself up onto those bloody knees. It wasn’t until he tried putting pressure on that left ankle though the it became plainly obvious Cas wasn’t going anywhere on his own. He crumpled again. Another lump swathed in a trench coat on in the driveway.

The humor had found its own way of slipping out of the picture at this time, Dean dropping back down in that splayed crouch, hands grabbing onto Cas’ shoulders protectively. He could feel his stomach knot, as if the physical pain was something he could feel intuitively. 

“Come on baby, I got you.”

Cas seemed to give in at this, though for what reason Dean was still unsure. Instead of fighting, he simply rested into the chest behind him, his own rising and falling slowly. His whole being began to relax into it, as if all he wanted was to be held and not disturbed. 

“I need your help,” he said finally, quietly. “if you don’t mind, that is.”

Dean could only smile at this, pressing as soft chaste kiss against the other man’s temple. 

Getting inside had been difficult. For the first little bit, he’d managed to get the other man up and onto his one good foot, limping along at a slow but decent pace. And it seemed to work for them, arm strewn around Dean’s shoulder whose own arm was wrapped tightly around the older man’s back. It was even kind of nice, in a certain way, needing each other and working together. Finding a way to match movements as to lessen the pain. That was, until they got to the inner stairs. 

“I could crawl,” Cas said, eyeing the death trap that was the rusty staircase. They’d been standing in front of it for a good five minutes, trying to come up with feasible options as to how. 

“And screw your hands and knees up more? I don’t think so.”

“You have any better ideas?”

“A few.”

Cas huffed again, and it was as if his perfect pigeon feathers were getting ruffled up. And Dean liked the way it happened to work on its own dynamic. How easy it was to tussle him. He’d spent so much time trying to avoid teasing just in case he’d gone too far. 

“I could carry you,” he said, after another pause. “If the stairs support us, that is.”

Cas stared at him for a moment as if contemplating this. And there was that hard expression because what else would he have been faced with? In any case, he shrugged his shoulders and nodded, as if accepting the fact that this seemed like the only likely option. And it was, if they were being quiet honest. 

Dean hadn’t realized how heavy the other man was until he’d managed to scoop him up into the cradle of his arms. How much of a rock he seemed, when the young Winchester had to brace his legs just to support him when standing completely still. But Cas was relaxed, pressing to him with arms wound tightly around his shoulders and face buried in the hollow of his collarbone as if expecting the worst. He was still and sweet like a child. 

The ashy-haired man started up on the stairs then, taking his time because as much as it strained his arms and made his legs feel like jelly about halfway up, he couldn’t help but savor the moment for what it offered him. A vulnerable creature in his arms instead of the enigma he’d been faced with back in Sam’s apartment. To the world, Cas could have been this great force. This wall of stone because he’d made himself marble. But Cas let himself be human for him. 

A heavy, marble human he may have been, but human even still. 

It had taken all of ten minutes to finally manage a successful traverse into the empty loft. Another five had been spent getting him over to the large leather couch, which he dropped the older man on a little unceremoniously, thanks to his tired muscles and an eternal lack of delicacy. Cas groaned, obviously not pleased by the treatment, but succeeded in getting himself back up into a sitting position. 

“First aid kit’s in the hall closet,” he said, leaning his head back. “Could you grab it for me?”

“Course.”

This happened to be a feat all of its own. 

Cas’ hall closet may have been the only unkempt place in all of the older man’s loft, filled to the brim with cleaning supplies and useless trinkets and things he’d simply never found a place for so it ended up there. It was an eclectic collection of rubbish upon rubbish that Dean had found it almost too amusing catching glimpses of whenever he could. Just after rummaging around in it for what felt like hours, he found his amusement started to lax itself in that department. 

Finally, and with more difficulty than was probably necessary, Dean managed to dig the dusty red box from way back in the far corner. It hadn’t been used in quite some time, which was not altogether surprising seeing as Cas tripping was something he wouldn’t have believed possible until he saw it with this own eyes. 

“Not to sound too overzealous or anything,” he was saying when he’d made his way out of the back hallway, fiddling with the old rusted clasp. “But I’m going to have to ask you to take your pants off-”

He stopped mid-sentence, though he wasn’t altogether sure why it seemed completely necessary. Just that, when he’d stumbled back into the living room, Cas was back to that visible stone, leaning over with his face braced in the palms of his hands. And, for the most part, it was exactly what he’d expected to be greeted with. In most regards, he shouldn’t have asked for more. 

But there was a small smile at the corners of Cas’ lips. A brief stretch of expression that warmed him in more ways than could ever placate.

“You called me baby,” he said, voice raspy, but still soft. And that smile of his only seemed to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut ;P but lots of plot! 
> 
> I kind of always wanted Sam to be that sort of 'family man' sort of deal. Well adjusted and settled down and happy with his life, you know? Happy with the little mistakes, and the forward rush of it. His life, to me, symbolizes what life should be, and thats a plan that never stays on course, but thats okay because you still manage to find a way to be happy, no?
> 
> I'm rambling. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks to miss Axe. She's perf and puts up with way too much of my bullshit :P 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, and happy reading!


	6. Manhattan is Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip is on. Dean comes to terms with what he wants and Cas gives him more than he feels he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, once again, I'm a little late with the update. Fortunately, Axe is a fast worker and was totally on the ball when it came to finishing up the edits whilst I, of course, ran this thing pretty late. 
> 
> And next week there's a pretty good chance I won't be updating till Friday due to the fact that I've got a few shift changes at work that are going to run me pretty dry. Otherwise, I should have this back up and running on Wednesday's again for consistency's sake. 
> 
> Here's the new chapter!

Chapter 6: Manhattan is Calling 

It had been decided that they would leave for New York on the fifteenth of June, when the weather had finally taken a turn to summer hot. And it was just as it should have been, tepid with humidity but sunny and bright in the way only summer could be. 

It was in light of the changing in seasons that things seemed to take a turn for the better. 

Jess, with a little difficulty and some help from Sam, told her parents of her expectancy. It didn’t go over well, which was unsurprising. But they had each other, and they’d had the apartment, which she’d promptly moved her things into over that week. Dean hadn’t spent a whole lot of time there anyways, nor did he expect himself to. Just, he’d half-hoped he’d of had the chance to save for first and last rent for his own place before he’d find himself being crowded out. 

Not that Sam would ever admit to crowding him out. He made no note of Dean finding another place anytime soon. The implication was there though, and it was enough to give worry to the older Winchester who knew they’d need their space. As soon as he could make it happen, he would. 

In any case, the trip was still an absolute certainty. Cas had, in his own sense of obligation, purchased the plane tickets and reserved hotel rooms. Planned outings to restaurants he liked, or book shops, and even went so far as to battle it out over the phone with Balth about getting three extra passes for the release party - by the end of it, he’d successfully managed to gain approval, but only after his face had turned red and the bridge of his nose ached from having been pinched too hard. 

When he’d asked Dean what he’d most like to see, the older Winchester merely responded with ‘comic books’ and ended the discussion there. The little guy had far too much on his plate to begin with. Adding anymore expectations to it didn’t seem justified. 

Either way, the trip had been planned, and the time booked off – to the great chagrin of both Jo and Ellen – and everything seemed to be rearing itself towards fruition. It was in this certainty that Dean couldn’t help but let his complacency in just a little bit further. A little bit deeper. It got stronger with age, and with more assuredness. Because he knew he couldn’t leave now, and that he didn’t want to. 

The day before the trip seemed to come far too early, at least in regards to Dean’s own want. He’d started sleeping more frequently by this time and with less disruption the more he attempted it, till he found himself having difficulty sleeping without the curl of some foreign limb against him. Which was why he’d woken so early that morning, having felt severed from said life force. He didn’t know how long it’d been since Cas had exited the room. Just that he’d tossed and turned ever since. 

He dragged himself out of bed slowly, the dredge of his sinews familiarly tight, but not unbearable. It was a sort of pleasure-pain, from having accommodated his own body to match the curve of the other man against him. A little tightness in his muscles was nothing compared. 

Cas had been in the kitchen, sitting at the little white dining table, wearing the fluffy powder blue housecoat he seemed to favor. It was a familiar and warming sight, though certain things had seemed a bit different. For instance, there hadn’t been a paperback novel splayed out in front of him whilst he had his morning smoke and coffee, as was his usual style, but a beat up old MacBook, which he typed on restlessly. The coffee was there, and the cigarette still perched on the thin bed of his lower lip, steadied by the much thicker upper one, having burnt down to the point of a long clump of ash seeming to barely hang on. He looked tired, but in the way he always looked tired. 

And perfect, because who was he kidding. Cas was beautiful. 

“Hey babe,” Dean said, sitting across from the older man after having poured his own cup of coffee. Cas hadn’t seemed to notice him till then, though his expression had visibly lightened when the other spoke, lips pulling at the corners ever so slightly. 

He stopped typing long enough to pluck the cigarette from his lips, letting out of a plume of smoke from his wide nostrils. “Good morning, Dean.”

“Those’ll kill you, you know.”

He only shrugged at this, lifting the cup of coffee to his lips instead. After taking a small sip, his nose crinkled, grimace visible. “It’s lukewarm.”

“Here, let me heat it up for you.”

Dean grabbed the small cup and headed towards the microwave, curiosity taking yet another stab at his insides when he thought of what could be hidden behind that screen. And, as much as he should have known Cas couldn’t have simply given up on the concept of writing, he’d never expected to actually witness him doing it. It was like peeking into something secret, and dark. A place that had been so well hidden for so long that now that he was there, three feet away from where the magic happened, he couldn’t settle his nerves. 

When he’d finished heating the coffee, he handed it back, standing now instead of taking that spot he usually did. And he would have picked up his latest read – ‘Everything is Illuminated’ by Jonathon Safran Foer – had it been any other circumstance. In this case, he didn’t know what to do. 

“You can sit, you know,” Cas said finally, tearing his eyes away from the computer screen yet again. 

“I’m good.”

Cas had that calm, hazy look to his features when the small smile started pulling at the corners of his mouth. Just a small expression, it’d seemed, that meant light years of feeling. “Is this making you uncomfortable?”

Dean nodded, then scratched the back of his head nervously. 

Cas responded by shutting the computer, tucking it back into the leather satchel that was lying against the legs of his chair. He didn’t fight it, nor did he make a big scene of exclaiming his displeasure at having to stop his prior ministrations. It’d been another landmark in the comfort level they’d managed to create within each other, seeing as the older man had never attempted writing in front of the young Winchester before. But one that would take time. And that was okay, because time was something they had in spades. 

“I left War and Peace on the mantel,” he said, taking the cup of coffee back in his free hand again. He staunched out the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray, not that there’d been much left of it to begin with, before taking a small sip. This time, he didn’t grimace. “Would you mind grabbing it for me?”

“Course.”

They read in silence for a greater portion of the morning, because that’s what they did. And Dean couldn’t remember having read half as much as he did until spending near all of his time in the presence of the other man. The massive collection didn’t seem so farfetched anymore, now that he was plowing through paperbacks and filling his mornings with something less provocative and more homely. 

Yes, books were starting to seem like a much more likely option than his string of women he’d used to spend far too much time on. There was no chasing now. No real appeal for the need of effort, because he was comfortable, and he liked being comfortable. 

How the hell he’d managed it was still something he didn’t quite understand. 

After three cups of coffee and another cigarette on Cas’ part, Dean got dressed and readied himself for a day rummaging through his things at home for what he would need the following day. Cas elected to stay back, knowing he’d be in need of his own personal time for packing, which was good because, by this time, they’d spent almost every waking minute together. Had it not been for work and the occasional job down at Bobby’s, Dean could see himself staying put for the rest of his life. 

When’d he’d managed to get home, Sam was already in a flurry. Unsurprising seeing as the young Winchester was in a rush almost always even when he needn’t be. Today was one of those days, watching as his brother strode around the apartment on limber legs, tossing about folded plaid shirts on the kitchen table in neat, orderly piles. And it was in this way, he couldn’t imagine things being any different. It reminded him of those family trips, of Dollywood and the Grand Canyon, and how small Sam had seemed hoisted up high on Dad’s shoulders. Of how Dad smiled even though he never meant it, because he’d never let himself mean anything after Mom. 

But Sam was smiling in all of his memories. And that, in its own right, was just as good as enough. 

Jess had been the one to snap the elder Winchester out of his silent reverie, carrying it what looked to be a massive hamper filled with fresh clothing. She was struggling with it, trying to get a good hold. “Dean, could you give me a hand?” 

He was at her side in seconds, taking the weight from her arms without having to ask direction. He took the basket out into the living room where he laid it out on the only empty spot left, which so happened to be a small corner of the coffee table. The chairs and couch were all covered in pants and t-shirts, dresses and skirts. A whole array of material really, that tented over everything in mad heaps. 

“This is a little, er, much,” Dean said. He took a quick spin, taking in the general sight of it all. “We’re not _moving_ to New York, you do realize.”

“Yeah, we didn’t mean to let it get this out of hand,” Jess said, laughing somewhat as if in disbelief at the mess they created. “It just sort of happened in the process, you know? Once we started, we couldn’t stop.”

“Should I bring this red plaid shirt or the red and yellow stripped one?” Sam asked suddenly, reappearing around the doorframe. He was holding two damn near identical button-ups, face scrunched in a way that made it seem as if the decision was life-threatening. “Or both? I’m thinking both.”

“The one on the right,” Jess said, as if on queue. “But bring the black v-neck to go with it. And that pair of Levi’s that aren’t torn at the knees.”

Sam stopped, computed this information, then nodded before zooming back out of view. 

“He’s a little obsessive sometimes,” she said, pressing her hand against her forehead. This was something she really hadn’t had to explain to him, though. “How’ve you been, anyways? Feels like it’s been weeks since we last talked.”

Dean shrugged, fighting the urge not to smile too widely. He’d always had a soft spot for Jess, and for how well she coped with the insanity that was Sam. In this case, he couldn’t have been more thankful for her unassailable tolerance. “I’ve been good. Can’t complain.”

“And Cas? He is well?”

“As stoic and mind-numbing as ever.”

She smiled at this, nodding her head in approval. “I’m glad to hear it. That Castiel Novak is something special. I read his book a few days ago. It was wonderful.”

Dean could only smile at this, though there was no real emotion behind it. After all, he hadn’t really had the chance to talk it out with the older man about much of anything pertaining to the novel, other than the few blatant hints he’d received at the start of, well, whatever it was they’d still yet to label. Just, in some ways, that novel was highly interpersonal. To think the world could dig as deep as he’d managed to under the other man’s skin without having to physically know him was something the young Winchester still had troubles dealing with. 

And the fact that there was no outlet for these curiosities and confusions and general need of consolation made it very hard for him to settle past the point he’d managed on his own. Which wasn’t very far, if he were being quite frank. Cas had always seemed quite content with knowing the present Dean, but discussing the past was never really something they’d acknowledged. 

“I think he’s happy,” Jess said, breaking Dean from his thoughts yet again. “You know? I think you make him happy, and he makes you a better person.”

“Hey!”

“I’m just saying,” she said, and laughed, because it seemed laughing was something she did exponentially well. It warmed him to hear it. “You weren’t exactly a relationship kind of guy before now. It’s nice to see you’ve finally managed to settle down.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t,” he shrugged, running his hand through his hair then. And he could feel the expression pull at his lips wider, because he really hadn’t been, nor did he know that he wanted it so badly till then. “But, then again, I guess, there wasn’t anyone I could feel the need to settle with, you know? It wasn’t as if I had a Cas before now.”

She patted his shoulder then, squeezing it briefly as if in some kind of acknowledgment of the prior statement. And when she nodded, her eyes drifted over towards the empty doorway yet again where they could still hear Sam’s feet pattering about, and the sounds of his groans as he banged into things clumsily. “We’ve all got our reasons, Dean. Our Cas’.”

With that she got back to sorting, which she did slowly, humming to herself as she did so. It was nice seeing her so calm, though it was not so unusual for her. Just, if there was anything to hope for in his life, it would have been to find a reason to be so well-adjusted. To be okay with the things you can’t change in life. 

To let it go. 

\--

The next day came sooner than he’d hoped. 

After a good day of packing and a night of reading and slow, measured love making, Dean watched as the morning sun rose past the California shudders, eyes half-lidded as they were. And it was beautiful how the light could bathe the room slowly but surely, brushing up along the bed spread in thick lines of reddish copper that turned slowly golden. It stretched farther, up along the brink of Cas’ cheekbone where he slept, facing Dean just but a hand’s breadth away. Just enough so that the young Winchester would have to reach over if he wanted to touch him. 

He hadn’t slept a wink, not that he expected he would. Not when, at the time, the morrow would bring something neither of them had faced together before then. 

Instead, he’s spent a greater portion of his time simply watching Cas sleep. Watching as the cool blue night marked the smooth panel of his brow, and the long curve of his nose. Watched as the colors faded into each other, bringing a new perspective to each angle. To each slow, measured breath. The older man was art, embodied. 

By now, he was a sunrise. Lit up like a firecracker in the morning light.

“You do realize it’s rather impolite to stare,” Cas said, and his voice was raspy with sleep, thick and low in tenor as it usually was. Dean could only smile at this, watching as the other man’s eyes opened slowly, sleepily, taking him away from the thoughts that had polluted his restless mind. 

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

He had that hazy look about his features then, seeming to have found that enlightenment that came with a cool morning and a restful night. He’d slept exponentially better these days. Dean was finding it less and less that he’d wake up without the feel of a body against him. 

When Cas spoke, he smiled. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Dean leaned in then, pressing his lips against the other man’s temple just softly enough to earn a pleasant sigh. When he’d done this, he lowered down a step so he could press another against the thick upper lip, this time with a little pressure. Just enough to elicit a response, which was always favorable. 

Cas grasped the young Winchester’s face between his hands as if it were something fragile, and delicate, letting his mouth mold against the more pliable one. Too deep, it seemed, like he’d wanted to pry Dean’s soul out through the action. Like he was just waiting for the opportunity to take everything he could and run. Instead, he would accept whatever he could get, needy as he was. Forceful as he could be. 

After what seemed like minutes, the older man finally pulled away, cheeks warm and lips swollen with the look of having just been ravished themselves. It was hot, and unnecessarily stirring. “I think I’m already going to like this trip.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, body moving slowly, and languidly. Managing to get himself up so he could roll right over top the young Winchester, pinning him between forearms. Trapped beneath the slender, perfect body he’d learned far too much and not nearly enough of. “And I’d like to hope it’s a mutual feeling.”

This was new. Dean was aware of patterns they’d created. The reading in the morning, for one, and the late night sex after work which was always the same rutting up. The same slow rotations that he’d never gotten sick of because they were perfect and intimate and, most of all, safe. Neither had had an episode since that first night, but the comfort level of their actions had cemented a need for routine. This was completely off the mark. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas said, pressing his lips against the young man’s jugular, face still as stoic as ever, but there was a warmth in his ocean eyes. Warmth in the flushed cheeks and the sexed out hair. He was so good at drawing what he wanted out of Dean, who let him without complaint. “A gift, for coming through on your word. You deserve my thanks.”

At first, Dean wasn’t quite sure what the other man meant by this, till he felt the hand palming his semi-hard cock through thin briefs. A few quick brush-ups that pulled the moans from his lips, body responding automatically to the quick advances. The lips on his throat, which he bared, hands now clenched at the sheets then up against Cas’ back. 

He bloomed when the older man touched him like that, feeling himself opening up to more. To whatever he could get. Because right now Cas was the sun in Dean’s life. This bright omen that came upon his withered tree and let the light in. He couldn’t leave now, and not because he’d made an honest attempt, but because he was addicted to the light.

“Cas, touch me,” he was saying, because he wanted to be touched, and not indirectly. He wanted to feel the warm slick of the other man’s cock against his own even if it was completely out of character. And the more the hand came down on him, the more his need grew for it. “Please, Cas. Touch me.”

The older man didn’t seem to pay these requests any mind. Instead, he continued on leisurely, mouth running along his neck, his collarbone. Sucking and biting and leaving small little marks that Dean hoped wouldn’t be noticeable at later inspection when they’d go to pick up Sam and Jess. This, of course, was of no concern to Cas, whose mouth was now clamping down on one of his exposed nipples, having travelled down through light kisses, stalling only briefly when met with the flared sun tattoo. 

And he was teasing, causing jolts of nervous arousal, because it was new and exciting and the way Dean’s body seemed to respond was one the young Winchester felt damn near embarrassed over. But Cas seemed happy with these reactions, dipping lower so he could kiss along the young man’s sternum, then down towards the navel. 

This was when Dean started to feel his first real bout of panic towards the situation. Cas never went that low during their love-making. He’d stayed where he could have the best view of the other man’s face, so that they could press their brows together when the time got close. So they could share the moment, because that’s what made it so profound and so utterly addictive. But today, he seemed to have a mind for something a little less intimate and a little more rewarding. Before Dean could protest, he felt the band of his briefs tugged down and the press of that pillow-y upper lip against the now straining purple head of his cock, hot breath sending a torrent of electricity throughout his very nerves. 

“C-Cas!” Dean groaned, feeling damn near assaulted with the sudden bursts of pleasure. Of arousal and shock and fear and excitement that seemed to cycle through his head and chest. The other man was looking up at him, tongue panning out along the underside of his erection where it could slide along the sensitive vein. Along the glans and up towards the mushroom tip. He was slow to move, deliberate when his fingers wrapped around the base and gave it a slow, measured pump. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Cas murmured against the flushed skin, voice low and raspy and, though it retained it’s awkward bluntness, it was utterly sexy. If it wasn’t already beyond measure towards how hot the whole thing seemed, it was now ten times worse, what with the older man playing at that pet name. Deliberately, and slowly, driving him crazy. “I got you.”

Dean’s hands knotted through Cas’ hair then, body shuddering and hips stuttering up, which Cas had to pin down with his free arm. The mouth came down on him slowly, taking hesitant bobs and long drawn strokes. The tongue was where the magic happened though, swirling and tightening, then stilling just to continue on, counter-clockwise. 

The young Winchester was straining against the sheets, toes curling and back arching up off the bed. His body felt as if it were on fire. A feeling he knew to be some kind of pleasant burn when touched by Cas, but not this agonizing. Not this forced out and drawn too thin, leaving him a quaking mess. 

He was getting close. He could feel it boiling over, taking him past that level of agonizing and throwing in another of complete and utter submission. He was pulling at Cas’ hair, voice peeling out from his throat in heavy moans and whimpers. ‘oh fuck’s’ and ‘don’t stop’s’. This only seemed to spur the other into moving quickly, deliberately, hand pumping and head moving up and down, up and down. 

And just like this, his glass tower shattered. The pinnacle had been raised, then fell, and it was so explosive he could hear his own mangled voice as if out of body. Cas held on, lips clamped around the tip, not willing to let it all go just yet. Keeping tight to the heady thrusts and the stuttered movements. He rode out the storm of release like a stone wall, only removing himself when he knew the other man was quite spent and settled. 

“Fuck,” Dean said, panting. He couldn’t believe what just happened. And if he wasn’t still riding on the edge, he might not have believed it to be completely true. It had been one of the most intense orgasms he’d ever managed to achieve, thanks to that talented tongue. Thanks to the man who was hovering over him again, small smile pulling at the edges of his lips. He looked damn near pleased with himself. 

“I hope that was sufficient enough of a thank you?” he asked. And there was no joking innuendo there. It sounded like an honest question. 

Dean merely nodded, feeling wide-eyed and embarrassed, but satiated. Panting and spent as he was, he could just get those few words out, a raspy, half-hearted, “God damn, Cas.”

The older man curled back into his side then, arm wrapping over Dean’s heaving chest and head falling against the overheated flesh. He hummed pleasantly, eyes half-closed as if he’d just woken. And it was nice, feeling that space inhabited again. Warm and settling. There wasn’t much he would have liked to do more than to fall asleep, now that he was literally running on empty. Now that he was drained to the point of exhaustion. 

This, of course, had been interrupted by the alarm Cas had set the night prior, not willing to take any risks when it came to getting where they needed to be on time. Dean had never hated a sound so much in his life. 

“To New York,” the older man murmured. 

“To New York.”

\--

The plane was to take off at 1:45 that afternoon, straight out of Kansas city, Missouri. A near three hour ride without stops that would take them just outside of Manhattan to the LaGuardia airport. From there, it would be a quick commute into Times Square, where they’d be staying in a hotel by the name of the Algonquin. And all of it sounded far too demanding, at least in Dean’s eyes. 

Had it not been for the slight bounce in the older man’s step as he moved about the apartment that morning, Dean would have suspected he’d start acting incredibly sick, or maybe tossing himself down the stairs in a mad attempt at breaking a femur. Really, anything that could have gotten him out of the impending trip, and not so much because he hated the idea of big cities, or fancy hotels, or even the terrible release party he’d feel completely out of the loop at. There was one very large reason he hated the idea of going, and that was flying.

There was nothing the young Winchester hated more than planes. 

It hadn’t occurred to him much that he’d be taking one until that morning, as they packed their luggage in the trunk of the Impala. It’d been something he would have likely kept at bay in his mind for the mere fact that it was better not to dwell on unnecessary things longer than he needed to. Just, now that it was staring at him blatantly, it made his whole being shudder with the very thought of it. 

When they reached Sam’s apartment, he’d already managed to break out into a cold sweat, which he dabbed away at furiously. It was enough to bring those ocean eyes in his direction, the only acknowledgement being that of a creased brow and a downturned lip. 

“Morning, guys!” Sam said, after having loaded his and Jess’ articles in the trunk. He burst into the backseat, half landing on the young miss Moore who’d already slipped into the left-hand side, near effortlessly. She, of course, only laughed, shoving him back into his own side. “Ready to get this train a’rollin?”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, Samantha.”

The trip to Kansas City was only a forty-five minute drive, and with Dean at the wheel they shaved a good fifteen minutes off that figure. This, of course, lead to them to getting there quite a bit faster than it had been previously scheduled. After a quick double check that everything was in order, they flew through security and had settled down for a coffee in a little over an hour and a half before their plane was scheduled to leave. 

Dean could feel his nerves light up when he’d sat down on one of the tall oak barstools in that small Starbucks they’d ended up in, not really touching his drink nor managing to try and retain some form of polite conversation. This was fine seeing as Sam had talked more than enough for all of them combined, spewing off different sights they would need to visit and how much of a necessity it was to go see a Broadway show at least once over the two week span. He’d looked more enthusiastic than Dean had seen him in a long time, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with his own dredge of panic. 

Fortunately, there was always just a brief touch of hand against his lower back when he least expected it. A cool press of fingers against his shoulder blade that helped settle some of the more pronounced nerves. Cas was like a mother hen, always seeming to faun over the little things. Always watching and waiting for the moments he knew his presence was most necessary. To the eye, the brief moments were nothing but a friendly tap. To Dean, though, they were a sign of belonging. Of being watched over. 

By the time they’d loaded up in the first class seats Cas had so graciously provided, the young Winchester felt surprisingly at ease for being only a few minutes away from hurtling through the air at tops speeds. If there was anyone he was willing to fly with, it would have been Cas, and for that calming trait alone. That well formulated expression that kept his features all hauled in tight, with wherever those emotions were hiding. Behind thick, glassy orbs of blue, if he’d have his guess at it. 

Just, now would have been the time to freak out, if freaking out were even an option. To back out would have been an even less likely option, seeing as he’d managed to get this far. But the panic was constant, and it made his whole system quake with a knowing sense that things weren’t going to get better from here. That it was about to get much, much worse. 

After they’d buckled in and the announcement of the flight path came through the speakers, Dean felt himself reaching for Cas’ hand near robotically, gulping down deep breaths of air he felt was already far too thin for still being grounded. And he felt dizzy, like he’d just ran a couple miles and was now just stopping for a drink of water, having not had the chance to cool down prior. He had to blink the sweat from his eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas murmured, leaning over when their fingers had clasped tightly. He was staring, and it was rather disconcerting. “Are you alright?”

He nodded somberly, staring straight ahead, instead. Right towards the back of the seat in front of him where the top of Sam’s head was visible. He was still talking, and quite animatedly to Jess, who was completely swamped by the size of the seat she was in. 

“I don’t exactly do planes,” he said after a moment, letting his fingers squeeze tightly against Cas’. “Or flying.”

Cas’ lips pulled into a taut, hard line at this, brow only managing to furrow a little bit further. A little more pronounced. “You could have told me, Dean.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” The question was deliberate. Bluntly executed.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And would you have preferred to take alternative methods of transportation?”

“Of course I would have, but that–.”

“Then it was important.”

Dean resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Yeah, Cas was right in the assumption that there could have been other ways of getting to and from, but he wasn’t about to let his own petty fears get the better of him and take away from the general convenience of it all. A car ride would have taken days, and a train just as long, meaning less time in New York or more time off work. Taking a plane was the most obvious solution when it came to the ease on time consumption. 

“Please make sure you’re fully seated,” the stewardess was saying as she headed up the aisles, checking to make sure everyone had buckled in safely. “The plane will be taking off in five.”

“Fuck me,” Dean mumbled under his breath, squeezing Cas’ hand to the point it must have been painful now. “Cas, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Just breathe,” he replied, thumb smoothing over the top of the young Winchester’s hand. “In and out. That’s it.”

Dean did as he was told, concentrating then on the each smooth inhale, followed by a long measured exhale. And Cas, who’d been watching him like a hawk, had tuned his own breathing pattern to match, mouthing out instructions as if they were necessary, and to a certain degree they may have just been. He listened, attentively, to the sound of rising and falling chests. Of air seeping in then out, almost rhythmically. 

When the plane took off, his heart stuttered into action. 

“This was a bad idea,” he snapped near harshly, breaking away from his breathing track. He brought his eyes over worriedly, staring down Cas like he’d just been shot, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so panicked in his life. Maybe not so much as the first time he’d ever taken a plane, which was ten times worse without the being beside him all calm and composed throughout his anxiety filled craze. “This was a really bad idea, okay? Okay, I’m fine. No, shit, I’m not fine. I’m not okay, Cas.”

“You’re okay,” the other replied simply. “Just breathe with me, okay? In and out.”

“I can’t breathe,” he replied harshly, turning back towards the seat in front of him. By this time, the plane was starting to level out, having reached altitudes the young Winchester was too afraid to register. “There’s not enough air. It’s like a vacuum in here-”

“There’s plenty of air. Breathe, Dean.”

He nodded, and honestly attempted, but his windpipe felt constricted and each breath was quick and fast, verging on hyperventilation. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the pressure on his head. The popping in his ears. 

“You’re doing just fine,” Cas murmured, pressing his lips lightly against the other man’s shoulder. 

Dean felt a little of the weight drift from his shoulders at the touch, and though he was still about ready to toss himself out the window, he was managing to breathe a little slower. A little deeper too, if he were being quite honest. The man beside him seemed to acknowledge this difference and, in turn, leaned in so he could sing whispered Bryan Adams lyrics in the young Winchester’s ear. All gravel and muffled by the need to be quiet, but still a sound that urged Dean to calm his fidgeting muscles and slow his unintentionally fast-paced breathing. 

By the time they’d finally gotten up to peak altitude, the young Winchester was drained to the point of exhaustion, eyes drooping as he listened to the soothing words. And it was better this way, because the panic had subsided. Better because, if he were lucky, he would let himself fall asleep for the duration of the trip. It was a soothing feeling having the other man near him, touching him, making him always aware that he was, in fact, there. And that he wasn’t going anywhere. That Dean was safe. 

“I’ve got you,” Cas said. He was fading out into background noise now, but the feel of his hands was still strangely poignant. “Just get some sleep, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

He nodded, then let his eyes close. Sleep came shortly after that. 

\--

When he woke, they were landing. 

He didn’t know how he’d managed to sleep the full three hours without waking up in sheer panic, but he had, and it was over before he could register it thoroughly. When the plane landed, it had all but knocked him back into reality. 

He’d held, or rather, had his hand held by Cas throughout the entire ordeal. It’d been something he found himself smiling over long after they’d touched ground again, which was something he’d never admit to. At least, not willingly. In any case, it gave him yet another reminder of why he’d chosen to go on that trip in the first place. For Cas, he was willing to do anything. 

After retrieving their luggage from the conveyer belt, they headed towards the back exit where they’d hail a taxi and be on their way. It gave Dean enough time to get his sea legs going, trying to not simply bend down and kiss the ground he’d been walking on for the sheer fact that he was still alive and still standing. That was, at least, until they ran into a certain two people that Cas hadn’t exactly expected to see. 

A short man came first, holding a halved pizza box with the words ‘Baby Bro’ written across it in sharpie, followed by a slim redhead with sharp eyes but a kind mouth. They’d come upon the flock in a flurry when the group had settled near the back doors, looking as if the two had waited for far too long. Exhausting as it was, it actually appeared to come as a surprise to the blue-eyed man, who watched with fright as they came near.

“Cassie!” the short man said, flinging the sign haphazardly over his shoulder so he could wrap his arms around Cas’ neck. And he had a big smile plastered across his unshaven face, hair framing his quirky features and those warm, whiskey eyes. When he touched back down – seeing as his feet had, naturally, found themselves elevated when crunched up against the other man – he struck a rather endearing pose, teeth flashing in a way that seemed quite well placed. “Long time no see, kiddo.”

The woman came next, having retrieved the sign off the ground, her fingers gentle and her lips pulling up at the very corners. The sharpness was still there, though. The suspicious glint in her eyes that, to Dean, seemed a tad suspicious in its own way. “Hi, Castiel. It’s been awhile.”

“Gabe, Anna,” the older man said, breathless. He looked wide-eyed and, to a certain degree, happy. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

“And miss out on our baby bro coming in from God knows where?” Gabe scoffed. “Yeah, sure thing. I’ll get right on that.”

Cas just shook his head, smiling in that exasperated way. 

Sam spoke next, having positioned himself in next to Cas so he might have the chance to jump in. And boy did he try, reaching his hand out and smiling in that way that was totally him and unsurprisingly charming. “Hey, I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my girlfriend Jessica. We’re friends of Cas’.”

“I’m Gabriel Novak, at your service,” the shorter man replied, grasping his hand without the slightest hesitation. They both shook vigorously, smiling to a point it looked damn near forced. “I’ve heard a lot about you Winchesters. And this is Dean, I presume?”

His eyes were on the older Winchester now, and there was that sharpness. The same curiosity and suspicion that seemed to haunt Anna’s own eyes during those first few moments of meeting. It was enough to shake Dean back into his senses, even if just for a moment so he could reply gruffly with an affirmative, reaching his own hand out in that mechanical, obviously macho, way he’d always done in awkward situations. And this was awkward, even if he hadn’t meant it to be. 

Cas’ hand was on his lower back then, whilst the shorter man shook Dean’s with that same forced look about his features and the same enthusiasm in that firm grip. Possessive would have been a good way to describe the blue-eyed man’s actions, but defensive seemed a more likely adjective. Either way, Dean suddenly felt extremely out of place within the small family circle. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Dean Winchester,” Gabe said, and he smiled to the point there were crinkles in his eyes. 

“You as well.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Cas said, voice gravelly but authoritative, “that Balthazar had informed you of my coming. I’d quite like to know what else he’s said, if we get the chance to talk at some point.”

Gabe’s smile faltered for a moment, though it was very brief and quickly reinstated. He looked as if he were about to say something in regards to the aforementioned suggestion when Anna cut in, her voice calm and her features smooth. She looked intensely young then, when she spoke. 

“I’m sure we will,” she said. “Gabe and I thought it’d be nice if we picked you up. We’re staying at the Algonquin ourselves. That is, if you’d like to come with us.”

Cas merely nodded his consent, turning his eyes towards Sam and Jess, then back towards Dean, imploringly. “That’d be alright with you?”

“We’re good with anything,” Sam said, clasping his hand against Cas’ shoulder. He looked happy, but tight in the joints. Well-masked as he was, even the youngest Winchester seemed to be quite affected by the awkwardness of the meeting. “As long as you’re good with it, of course.”

“Dean?” Cas turned fully towards the eldest Winchester now. And the question was there, soft and muted as it was. “You’re okay with this?”

“As long as we’re not taking a plane, I couldn’t care less.”

The group then exited the building, gaining ground in the direction of the parking lot instead of the front roundabout. And it was busy, filled with people entering and exiting. Cars and taxis and buses all trying to squeeze their own way through the uncomfortably tight traffic. It was like being in a movie airport, except there wasn’t any room to breathe, and no protagonist seemed to spring free of the masses. 

They managed though, and with some needed effort from the tall guy who was in charge of clearing the way out towards the temporary parking spots where Gabe had left his SUV. It was a spacious vehicle and one that they found was easy enough to pack five luggage cases in, whilst still managing to leave themselves ample room. All except Sam, that was, who had to take the front seat due to the limited leg room in the back. Anna had no complaints, and sat next to Jess, smiling warmly now in a way that wasn’t so uptight. The other responded the same. 

As soon as they were a good distance from the airport, discussion picked up again. 

“So Balth finally wrangled you in?” Gabe said, steering about the traffic a bit too recklessly even for Dean’s taste. If there was one thing proven, it was that the little guy sure knew how to move. “We all thought you’d finally had it.”

Cas merely shrugged, his hand resting on the top of Dean’s thigh. The young Winchester stared at it, not quite sure whether or not he wanted to shake it off or place his own palm over it. “I did, but I’m here anyways.”

“That’s good, then!” the older Novak said, and Dean was sure there was a smile on his face even though he couldn’t see it. “Any big plans for your stay? I hear the parties going to be a real doozy.” 

“Comic book stores,” Cas replied simply. “We’re going to go see comic book stores.”

It took a moment for Dean to register these words, but when he did a certain amount of color flared up behind the skin of his neck and cheeks. 

“Must’ve been Dean’s idea,” Sam laughed, turning back so he could stare into the cab. He had that goofy grin plastered across his face, eyes crinkled. “Coming all the way to New York for comic books. Why am I not even slightly surprised.”

“Hey, don’t mess with Marvel,” Dean was saying, but he still sounded gruff for the apparent reason that Cas had calculated in the one thing he’d requested and made it the forefront of their journey. Because Cas was always calculating what ways he could make things better for Dean, even when the whole point was to do the complete opposite. 

The warmth in his chest had blown up so large he felt he might collapse from it, had he not already been sitting. 

“Sounds, er, fun?” Gabe added, none too convinced, not that he really needed to be. It was Cas they were talking about. 

Conversation had been light for the rest of the drive into Manhattan, not really touching much on anything other than a few trifling details pertaining to when and if they were going to go see Balthazar the next day or if they were going to try and leave it off till absolutely necessary. Cas hadn’t really tried to give a direct answer to the subject. Instead, he shrugged, eyes turned towards the tinted windows, seeming to take the cityscape in more than the topics at hand. And Dean watched him, having given up on conversation altogether. 

It was already well past dinner by the time they’d managed to get to the large, fancy building, skimming now into the early evening hours. Each person had their chance of gawking at the sight of the massive hotel with green window shades and a big, elegant sign reading ‘the Algonquin’ in a pretty French script. And it really was grand, if it hadn’t been for how ostentatious the whole thing felt. How overly indulgent, because Dean hadn’t spent a penny on any of this, and accepting the fact that he’d be sleeping up among the stars seemed like a less likely option than anything else had ever been. 

When they’d unpacked their luggage for the billionth time that day, they wheeled it on in, saying their goodnights and their well wishes for the morrow, offering times when they should meet for breakfast and going over the plans for that day. Everything had been settled, which really hadn’t taken all that long thanks to Cas’ print out of the schedule he’d predetermined, and they each headed towards their separate rooms – Gabe’s and Anna’s being on the second floor whilst the rest were up on the tenth. 

It was almost a breath of fresh air splitting away from the other four, which Dean felt bad about even as he waved his final goodnight to his brother and Jess. But he’d wanted to say things. Many things and he wasn’t quite sure how to word them in front of anyone else, even if he could have. In this case, he knew it would have been better to be alone. 

Cas had taken to unpacking his things by the time Dean had even wheeled in his own luggage, taking slow measured movements as he placed each article of clothing into the set of dark chestnut drawers. The room itself was large, with a massive king-sized bed draped in a plush comforter far more elegant than anything he’d ever slept in, and pillows with detailed embroidery that matched the gold toned ones on the small leather bench by the massive window giving view to the immensity of Times Square. It was like nothing he’d ever let himself believe he’d ever get the chance to see. Not like this. Not a thousand feet above ground with the man he couldn’t live without. 

And he couldn’t live without Cas. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to anymore, or that it was even a choice. He’d placed all his eggs in one basket, and as much as it scared him, and as much as he should have been afraid, it brought a certain sense of peace to the once insufferably restless mind. 

“When we get home, let’s rebuild that old garage,” Dean said, not stopping the words then. No longer feeling the need to subdue them. “You and me. Let’s get her in working condition.”

Cas, who’d been in the midst of unpacking a few pairs of holed, acid-washed jeans, looked up with wide, speculative eyes and a curious ‘o’ shape to his mouth. It was cute in the way all things he did were cute, especially when surprised. “Dean.”

“We could run it too, you know,” he continued. And he was coming closer now, letting his hands drape against the older man’s hips. Drawing him in as he’d wanted to do ever since the words ‘comic book’ were uttered from his lips. “I’m not all that bad under a hood, and Bobby can vouch for me, if you need a good recommendation.”

“You’d want that?” it was a soft question. An imploring one. And there was hope there, in that curved swell of lip. The glint in his exceptionally blue eyes. 

“Yeah,” he said, and he was smiling. “Yeah, I kind of guess I do.”

“Then I do too,” he replied simply. Bluntly. “For you, Dean, always.”

He knew he’d get that answer, because it was the answer Cas would always give, and he should have kissed him because that was what he would have done, and things would be unintentionally normal whilst still retaining that whisper of a promise. That taste of what the future could bring, because that’s what they deserved from life. A kiss and a promise. A light at the end of the tunnel always worth reaching for. 

But, instead, he didn’t. Because he was tired of waiting on a promise.

“I love you, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun
> 
> cliffhangers. I'm kind of a big fan of them. 
> 
> And yeah, I get it. Dean's jumping the gun because he totally knows how to jump the gun. It'll all make sense next chapter, when the 'obstacles' that haven't really been visible come to fruition.
> 
> Otherwise, I'd just like to make note of my undying love and thanks to miss Axephiel. She edited this in record speed, and I couldn't thank her enough for it. 
> 
> Much love!


End file.
